by Pat Wahler
A searing pain pummeled me, and I gasped.
“Some doctors use chloroform to dull the pain, but I believe it puts the baby at risk. However, if you need it, I will do as you wish,” he said.
“I don’t want to risk my baby’s life.”
“Then let’s try this. It may help you through the contractions.”
Dr. Vertrees tied a rope from the bedpost for me to clutch whenever the worst pains gripped me. I soon forgot about Jesse as wave after wave of deep cramping racked my body. I sweated and groaned and pushed for what seemed like hours, until the sheets were drenched in perspiration.
Finally, Dr. Vertrees ordered me to a final push until the baby, wet and bloody, slid from my body. He cut the cord and held up the infant, slapping it once then twice. I sighed in relief when I heard a cry. He wiped the small red infant with a damp cloth, in the same way he had ministered to me during my labor.
“Mrs. Howard, you have a fine boy. He looks strong.”
The doctor gave me the baby, and my son squalled, loud and indignant. I had never heard such a beautiful sound.
“I’ll have your house woman come in right away to clean you up. Then I’ll speak with your husband before sending him in to see you. You’ve done a hard job. The best thing you can do now is rest.”
I nodded but didn’t take my eyes off the baby in my arms. His face was blotched and squashed together from his perilous journey. Tiny blue eyes looked into mine, and for the second time in my life, I fell in love.
Once Patsy cleared away the soiled sheets and clothing, I lay in semi-darkness, alone with my child.
Jesse tread warily into the room and peered at the bundle in my arms. “Dr. Vertrees says we have a son.”
“Yes. Look at him.” I pushed aside the blanket to allow a good view of the baby’s face. “This is your boy. Isn’t he handsome?”
Jesse’s lips parted, and he leaned closer, touching his finger to the baby’s cheek. “He’s perfect. And I’ve decided what to name him.”
“Yes?” I waited.
“Jesse Edwards James.”
My husband had given himself a namesake and honored his friend John Edwards at the same time. My lips curved into a tired smile.
“Yes. I think that will suit him perfectly.”
“That will be his name, but only you and I and the family will ever know it. He can’t be the son of Dave Howard and have the name Jesse James. For the time being, he must be called something else.”
“Of course,” I murmured. His reasoning made sense, although it knotted my stomach.
“I like the name Tim. We’ll call him that—like a nickname.”
But even this small cloud couldn’t dim my happiness. I put the baby to my breast. He turned and rooted, as though he didn’t know what to do. I guided him and after a few tries, he finally understood and began to nurse.
Jesse settled into the chair beside me and yawned. “You did good today, my dear. No one could have done it better.”
I cuddled the baby, and Jesse’s soft words soothed me. My body ached from the ordeal it had endured, yet that didn’t prevent my eyelids from getting heavy. The baby turned his head and fussed. I guided him back into position again and smiled.
We had become a family of three.
25
Little Tim sat on the kitchen floor with a wooden spoon in his plump and dimpled hand. He pounded it on a chair leg as though he’d become a miniature drummer boy. My lips curved up, remembering his mouth rimmed with the chocolate cake I’d baked for his first birthday. At Jesse’s insistence, we’d celebrated the occasion a week early.
My husband had commissioned a wooden rocking horse, painted the same red-brown color of the bay horses he loved, complete with black mane, tail, and stockings. The mane and tail were long and fashioned from real horse hair. Tim’s eyes were wide with enchantment when he saw it, and, when he was held secure in the saddle by his father, he giggled out loud with every rock and sway.
Jesse even surprised me with a small box containing a pair of luminous cream-colored pearl drop earrings. When I looked at him with brows raised, he grinned. “That’s for giving me my first son.”
Yet in the days that followed, I suspected the gift meant more than that. Jesse had already been away earlier in the summer, and lately his movements were more sharp and hard. His restless spirit stirred again. He’d scribbled more letters and sent them to John Edwards, to defend himself from accusations he’d participated in recent robberies, some of which had included cold-blooded murder.
Tim and I were often in bed long before Jesse came home from meetings with old comrades. When I asked who they were, he teased that I didn’t need to worry for he wasn’t spending time at Madame Zilphia’s. I didn’t smile, for I suspected the quiet I’d come to enjoy in the months after Tim’s birth would soon come to an end.
Then we received a letter from Annie that stirred the embers of Jesse’s anger. Hired detectives had swooped in to search her father’s home in Kansas City for signs of Frank or Jesse, upsetting the household and embarrassing her family. Jesse fired off yet another letter to the newspaper and vented his fury to me.
“I can’t sit here and twiddle my thumbs while our kin are harassed. Now Annie’s family is a target, same as my mother has been.”
“How will you strike back? What can you do?”
“There’s a man who killed a good friend of mine during the war. He’s got a lot of money in a bank that’s ripe for picking.”
“Jesse, the war is over and you have a son now. It’s time to turn your attention to your family instead of endangering yourself and our baby.”
He only laughed and picked Tim up off the floor. Jesse boosted the baby high over his head and Tim crowed with delight.
“Come with me, son. Let’s take a ride on your horse. Perhaps we should name her Kate, after the finest mare I ever owned.”
Jesse set Tim back on his feet and took his hand. With his father’s help, Tim toddled to the porch, where the elegant wooden horse waited. Jesse put Tim in the saddle and rocked the horse, laughing along with his son’s squeals.
I shook my head and picked up the jacket Jesse had flung on a chair. A piece of paper fell from the breast pocket to the floor. I picked it up to tuck it back in his pocket, but hesitated. A good wife would never dream of reading her husband’s private correspondence, but when a husband refused to discuss his activities with his wife? The rocking horse moved on the wooden slats of the porch, and Tim squealed again. I chewed my lip and opened the paper. A single word appeared in Jesse’s careless scrawl.
Northfield.
The word meant nothing to me, and I quickly returned the note to the coat’s pocket before he could see what I’d done.
Within days, Jesse left and John Vertrees again came by each morning and every night as was his habit. He spoke little, but his hard-working nature, whether fetching supplies from the mercantile or hammering a board on the porch, put me in mind of Papa’s generous spirit.
Jesse had discouraged me from making friends with our neighbors, but in view of his frequent absences, I gave myself the luxury of visits next door with Tom and Sally Carson.
They were close to our age, with a three-year old daughter named Janie. Even though I knew Jesse wouldn’t approve, I chatted with Sally every day. We talked about children and recipes and commiserated with each other over a cup of coffee when the rain kept us from hanging laundry outside. She talked rapidly and affected silly mannerisms, but she meant well, despite her vaporing. One morning, it occurred to me I should take Tim next door to play.
Before I made it to the porch, Tom Carson appeared at the door, flustered and pale.
“Will you please come over? Janie is very sick and Sally is beside herself with worry. I’m going for the doctor.”
I wiped my hands on my apron and put Patsy in charge of Tim before I ran to the small house next to ours. I pushed open the door without knocking and went straight to the bedroom. Sally knelt by the cot of
her daughter.
Without even touching Janie, I could see the child blazed with fever.
“I’ll get some water and a cloth to sponge her.”
“Oh, Josie, what will I do if I lose my baby?”
“Don’t even think such things. Janie will pull through this. She’s a strong girl, and with the doctor’s help, I know she’ll be fine.”
Sally continued to moan and weep, her hands covering her face. I took the cloth and dipped it in water then sponged Janie’s forehead and arms until Dr. Vertrees arrived. He examined the child and asked Sally questions, which she answered between hiccupping sobs.
Finally, the doctor sighed and spoke to me. “I believe she has a summer fever. Give her a spoonful of this every few hours to help her sleep and try to keep her cool until the fever breaks. I’ll be back in the morning to see how she’s doing.”
The doctor’s comments prompted Sally to cry even harder. When Tom came into the room, I had to shout over her near-hysteria. “Sally is distraught. Go to my house and tell Patsy I’ll stay here tonight to help with Janie. Ask her to please watch Tim for me. Oh, and let Mr. Vertrees know where I am, too.”
Sally did not leave the room all night, though she dozed on and off in the chair next to Janie’s bed. Thank the Lord her wailing subsided! In the quiet, I wiped Janie’s skin with a damp cloth and watched to be sure her breath came without labor. The task reminded me of sitting by another bedside many years ago.
By early morning, Janie opened her eyes and asked for a drink of water. When Dr. Vertrees arrived, she was sitting up supported by pillows. She’d asked for a piece of skillet toast, but I told Sally we needed to wait.
“She will be fine,” the doctor said. “Give her broth at first, then let her eat whatever she wants.” With this news, Sally smiled, and the haunted look left her red and swollen eyes. She hugged me before I trudged back home, weary and grateful Janie had recovered, but even more thankful my own boy had so far remained healthy and strong. The world wasn’t always kind to children. I remembered the babies my mother had buried, and I thought of Zerelda and little Archie. I shuddered to think what I’d do if anything so tragic happened to a child of mine.
The first week of September arrived with the sun so bright and air so fresh, I abandoned my plan to beat dirt from the braided rug and took Tim by the hand for a walk. Birds chirped at us, and an eagle soared over the river. He toddled along beside me with an intent expression, as he concentrated on the task of moving one foot in front of the other. After we’d walked for a few minutes, he let his legs go soft and sank into the dirt.
“Is my little man tired?”
He gave me a toothy grin.
“All right then. Come here and we’ll go home.”
I lifted him to my hip and started back to the house. By the time we reached the porch, I saw Sally waving at us. She held Janie’s hand and had a bundle wrapped in a redand-white checked napkin tucked under her arm.
“This is for you,” she told me.
I took the warm bundle and smelled the fragrant aroma of fresh baked bread.
“Thank you for your help, Josie. I don’t know how I could have managed without you.”
“We’re friends, aren’t we? You’d do the same for me.” I held the bread up to my nose. “This smells wonderful. There’s no need for you to bring a gift, but I’ll take it all the same. Let’s go inside and sit down. Tim and Janie can play on the porch while we visit. Patsy will keep an eye on them.”
I poured us each a cup of coffee, and Sally began to chat in her artless way. The aroma from my cup soothed me as I listened to her prattle on and on. Then she lowered her voice as though she had a secret to tell.
“Did you see the newspaper today? There was an attempted bank robbery in Minnesota. A place called … what was it again? Oh, yes, Northfield. Tom is quite fascinated by the whole affair and told me all about it.”
Northfield in Minnesota? Could they be so far away?
With a long familiar rush of adrenaline, my heart pounded, though I spoke in a studiedly measured tone.
“Really? What happened?” “The paper says it was the James and Younger gang that did it. A bank clerk got killed and two of the robbers were shot dead in the street. All of that, and the bandits didn’t even get one penny from the bank.”
I swallowed past a lump in my throat. “Did the paper give names of the men who were killed?”
“Umm, let’s see. I think Tom said it was Clell Miller and Will Chadwell, but I’m not sure since I was busy braiding Janie’s hair and didn’t read it myself. Anyway, the whole town got shot up with bullets flying everywhere. The rest of the gang escaped, and now there must be a hundred men out looking for the ones who got away. Everyone says this will put an end to the gang’s robberies and that they’ll all be strung up in no time. Isn’t it exciting news?” She paused to take a breath and stared at me. “Josie? Are you all right?”
Sickness spread from the pit of my stomach. My ears buzzed, and I saw gray spots. I had to grip the table to keep from falling over in a faint.
“I’m fine. I must have eaten something to upset my stomach. You must excuse me while I go to the bedroom and lie down. Thank you for the delicious bread.”
I fled from Sally’s concerned face, then kneeled and retched into the chamber pot. Sitting up, I wiped my mouth. No one knew better than I how often newspaper stories were contrived. I needed the truth of what had happened. But there was no one I could contact. No one with whom I could talk out my fears. No one to reassure me. All I knew was that Jesse could be wounded or running for his life. I steeled myself to face the fact he might even be dead.
In the weeks that followed, I read every newspaper I could find, looking for stories about the robbery. I’d become frantic enough to think even skewed accounts were better than nothing at all. Headline after headline appeared. One story said the robbers who escaped had been seriously wounded. Another speculated the Northfield bank had been targeted because one of the bandits had a spite against Adelbert Ames—ex-governor of Mississippi and a Radical—and also a major depositor. A reporter interviewed Zerelda about the manhunt. She declared her sons’ innocence. and brought up injustices she and her family had endured from authorities in the past. A shudder rippled down my spine. I needed no reminder.
Soon, a headline claimed Cole, Bob, and Jim Younger had been wounded and captured near Madelia, Mississippi. Charlie Pitts, who was with them at the time, wasn’t so lucky. He’d been shot dead. Now the pursuers had their sights on only two suspects: Frank and Jesse James. I picked at my thumb nail and trembled over what might come next. If only I could contact Annie. But with detectives thick in Missouri, I feared the possibility of correspondence being intercepted.
No one led such a charmed life that would allow them to escape detection forever. Something was bound to happen sometime, and I wondered what I’d do when I came face to face with widowhood or a husband condemned to many years in jail. The more I considered the prospect, the more difficult it became for me to rise from bed each morning. My son’s face became my source of strength, and the single buoy that kept my head above the swirling darkness of despair that threatened to pull me under.
On a bleak and frosty early October morning, John Vertrees came to me with his hat in hand. He stomped off mud caking his boots, before he gave me a piece of paper.
“Good morning, Mrs. Howard. A rider brought a telegram for you.”
I took it, my hand shaking so hard the message nearly slipped away. “Thank you, Mr. Vertrees.”
He eyed me with concern but put on his hat and went back to the barn. I shut the door and tore open the message.
Josie,
I am well. Business delaying return. Love to you and Tim.
Ever yours,
Dave
My knees lost their starch and I sank into a chair. Those few words were all it took for my battered heart to soar. He was alive. And I knew he’d find a way to get back home.
26
Frightened, I tried to bring back the man I remembered, cooking his favorite foods and fussing at him to eat. We put on jackets and took Tim for long walks in the crisp, fresh air. I read funny stories to him from the newspaper. Still, he remained distant until the morning he made an announcement.
“It’s time for us to move. This place is too small, and I don’t like the neighbors being so familiar. Tom Carson is always asking me about my business, and Sally keeps telling me I ought to stay home and tend to my family.”
“But, Jesse, it’s natural for them to wonder. You’ve been gone for a long time.”
“I’ve had more than I can take of people watching me. It’s time we move somewhere new.”
“But Tim was born in this house.”
“And he can grow up somewhere else. Children move with their families all the time. It makes them stronger.”
I wondered if many moved as often as we did, but bit my tongue to keep from saying it, fearful of deepening the darkness of his mood. Instead, I started packing our trunk. Within days, Jesse hired a wagon and men to move our belongings from Boscobel Street. He insisted we leave during the night and tell no one we were going. I stared at my hands and wondered what Sally would think when she woke up in the morning to discover we were gone.
Jesse shifted us from one place to another around Nashville, blinking as he selected and then rejected each house. His pulse beat madly at his throat as he searched for a place that suited him. I grew so weary of living like a gypsy that I no longer bothered to unpack boxes. I took out the few things we needed to get by each day and made a point of not talking with the neighbors so Jesse wouldn’t be upset. I no longer cared whether I ran a brush through my hair or had wrinkles in my dress.
