There is something enchanting about this river, she thought as she baited her hook. It has a calming effect on me. Why? It’s nothing special, compared to the Mississippi or Big Black. And yet, I feel a bond, a special intimacy between me and this river. Strange?
Dayme fancied that perhaps no other living person had ever fished in this particular spot before, that God created it especially for her. Somehow, sitting alone in God’s wilderness, watching the shimmering water glide endlessly over the rocks and mussel shells of downriver shoals, had an almost narcotic effect. The deafening sound of silence made the crickets’ call and the multi-noted wild birds’ melody, accented by the steady drumbeat of croaking frogs, more pronounced and musical. The gurgle of rippling water enhanced the music, making a lovely nature symphony.
“Why,” she wondered aloud, “does a lonely person find solace in solitude?” She put another fish in the tow sack in the shallow water near the bank and baited the hook.
A couple of hours later, the sound of many horses’ hooves invaded Dayme’s paradise, startling her. She ducked behind some tall Johnson grass, frightened and wondering if it was cavalry or Comanche Indians. She felt weak in the knees when she saw a band of about thirty Indians driving cattle and horses to the shoals not fifty yards away.
Afraid they would see her, Dayme slipped soundlessly down the bank into the water next to the fallen tree. She could see them from her hiding place and hear them laughing. The Indians splashed in the water like a gang of children on an outing.
Oh, dear Lord, she prayed. My sunbonnet! The woman pressed close to the riverbank, praying the Indians wouldn’t notice, and stretched a wet and trembling arm upward trying to reach the bonnet. It was too far away. She probed at it with her fishing pole but was unable to find it without getting up to where she could see better. She eased the pole near the old tree to secure it out of sight. God only knows how the woman stretched her body far enough to reach a bonnet string and pull it into the water.
The Indians were certain to find Cavalier, she knew. He is lost, and they are certain to search for the rider. She recited the Lord’s Prayer in her mind.
Her nerves drew in a knot when she heard a warrior whoop in delight. She knew he’d found her favorite mount. At that selfsame moment, every fiber in her body stiffened. A cold, shivering sensation raced through her body as she smothered an insistent urge to scream. A deathly cold, slimy water snake slithered across her bare arm. She imagined the snake swimming back toward her. As far as Dayme was concerned there was no such thing as a harmless snake or a harmless Indian. The memory of the ranch massacre haunted her.
Petrified with fear, Dayme stood chin deep in the water, her green eyes wide with fright as she heard the Indians walking through the leaves in her direction. She felt that soon she would die. Blessed heavenly Father, she silently prayed. Hide me with Thy hand. Protect me, Lord, for Thou and Thou alone can save me.
She waited until the warriors sounded close, took a deep gulp of air and submerged until she thought her lungs would surely burst. It was time to make a choice, surface or drown.
She emerged from the water and looked upward, straight into the cold eyes of a war-bonneted Comanche chief and wished she’d drowned instead. Terrified, she gazed at the chief whose feet were planted on the edge of the bank. She opened her mouth to plead for her life but no sound came.
Dayme knew the chiefs identity without an introduction. He was lighter in color than most Indians, and his eyes…his eyes were hazel. Without a doubt, she knew she was facing Quanah, the half-white son of Cynthia Ann Parker. He had the reputation of being the meanest of the lot.
The chief’s gaze never wavered and not a flicker of pity reflected in his hard, icy gaze. He just stood there staring at her. She felt like a helpless mouse, cornered and toyed with by a cat, while the warriors searched the bottomland for a rider.
After what seemed an eternity, the great chief raised his arm and shouted a piercing command. This is it, Dayme thought. They are coming for me. They will torture me before I die. She closed her eyes and waited helplessly for capture, but nothing happened. She opened her eyes, and to her surprise, the chief was mounting a paint pony. The band rode away, driving the herd and splashing across the river into the pecan bottom on the other side.
Dayme crawled weakly out of the water, her trembling, water-soaked body still quickened with goose flesh. She lay down on the soft green grass, knowing that only God in His mercy had placed compassion in the heart of the fiercest and reputedly most ruthless chief in the entire Comanche nation. She wondered how many more narrow escapes were assigned to her.
“Quanah Parker had the power of life and death over me,” she muttered. “Yet he chose to spare my life. Why?” For the first time, it occurred to her that the Indians were human beings with feelings same as white people. Wild, dwindling people who loved life and freedom, too. “This was their land until white people took it from them. Now, the army is driving them to reservations like cattle. They are a starving people whose once great buffalo herds are practically non-existent since the skinners and trophy hunters came.”
For the first time, Dayme realized the awesome plight of the vanishing race in spite of the fact that her family had died at their hand. Her thoughts returned to Morgan. She recalled what he said the night Daniel Lee was born. “A man must protect his livelihood and his family.” That means Indians, too.
Dayme threw the tow sack with the fish across her shoulder and began the trek back to the ranch, thankful to be alive.
Chapter 31
VICKSBURG, MISSISSIPPI. April, 1871
Stepping out of a tattered black carriage, carrying a freshly baked, still warm apple pie in a basket, Lida Mae Peters screeched to the driver in a high-pitched voice. “Two hours. Come back in two hours.” With an air of anticipation, she sounded the chimes on the black creped door and was greeted by the mousy, pimply-faced maid, Becky.
Once seated in the parlor, Mrs. Peters went through all the courtesies of propriety following a funeral. She elaborated on how sorry she was that Corley had died, what a good man he was and that she had baked the pie because there was such little else she could do to help ease the family’s bereavement. “If there’s anything, anything at all that I can do, Mary Margaret, don’t fail to let me know.” Lida Mae stressed her words as she peered over the pinch-nose glasses. “Now promise me you’ll let me know.” Once that was out of the way, the woman settled down in a Chippendale chair to sip tea. The brief chat of condolence at the cemetery with Morgan last week had aroused her curiosity. She wondered why Mrs. Edwards had never mentioned that Morgan was married.
“I was flabbergasted when Morgan told me he married Dayme Jo O’Malley nearly four years ago.”
“I suppose it’s all over town.” Mrs. Edward’s lip set in a hard line. “I’ve been in mourning since it happened.”
“You should have confided in me, Mary Margaret,” Lida Mae cooed. She was thrilled to have hit a nerve. “You poor thing, bottling all the hurt inside.” Her bony fingers patted Mrs. Edward’s pudgy hand. “You must have been mortified! But dear, Morgan did come to you in your time of need. He’s such a handsome and fine man.”
It was a vulnerable time. Mrs. Edward’s felt alone and helpless. Her eyes were red from weeping. Words she had told no one just tumbled out. “Oh, Lida Mae,” she wailed. “Morgan is not the same. He’s so defensive of that…that woman. I used to have a son but not anymore. Not since that strumpet dug her clutches into him. He’s her husband now. I’ve lost communication with Morgan. We’re like strangers.” She buried her face in her hands and sobbed angrily. “That bitch stole Morgan away. He refuses to move home to Vicksburg. Now Corley is dead, and I have no one.”
“Come now. You have your daughters,” Lida Mae reminded. “You’re not alone. You have me. There’s nothing I wouldn’t do for you. Bless your heart, one would think losing Corley would be enough for you to bear without being estranged from your son, too.”
Mr
s. Edwards blew her nose and daubed at her eyes with a delicate white lace handkerchief. “Yes. Thank God for my girls and my grandchildren.” Her lip trembled and her voice broke. “Morgan is my only son and my favorite, the apple of my eye. I always counted on having Morgan…my crutch for my old age.” Her voice trailed the words slowly while she wallowed in self-pity. “I died, Lida Mae. I absolutely died inside when Morgan wrote home that he’d married that awful, shameless woman. I was so ashamed. I don’t know what I’ve done for God to punish me like this. How can I go on? How can I bear knowing my son is married to that…that woman.”
Mrs. Peters’ narrowed eyes sparkled behind the pinch nose glasses on her long, thin nose. At last, the whole sordid story was coming out and she was delighted. “I’ve heard it said time and time again, ‘a son is a son until he takes him a wife, but a daughter’s a daughter all of her life.’ It was my husband’s dream to have a son. He wanted to place a sign ‘Peters & Son’ over our store. I grieved for years because I couldn’t give him one. I lost three babies, you know. Anyway, after seeing you suffer like this over your son, I’m glad we have only Maggie Mae. Did Morgan offer to take you back to Texas with him?”
“Oh yes, Morgan asked me. I’d die before I’d suffer the humiliation of living under the same roof with that hussy in that God-forsaken place.”
“Morgan told me they have two little boys,” Lida Mae prodded. “Honey, perhaps you should go to Texas with him for just a little while until you get over Corley’s death. The journey would do you good like a medicine, and you can get to know your other little grandsons.” The insatiable urge to gossip was not containable.
“Harrumph!” Mary Margaret’s red eyes blazed. “Those urchins? They’re not Morgan’s. Dayme had them when Morgan married her. She’s no good, that one. I knew it the day she went to work for Tom Macy. No good! White trash!” Angry words tumbled out shrilly. “That whore lured my son into marriage. Now, he’s raising her litter. Please, please don’t tell anyone, Lida Mae. If you do, I’ll never be able to hold my head up in Vicksburg again.”
“You can tell me anything, dear. You know that. I’m your best friend. At least, I hope I am. What are friends for? Let it all out, honey. You’re going to be sick if you don’t get all these troubles off your chest. You’ll just smother, Mary Margaret, holding it all inside.” She shook her head in sympathy. “I don’t know how you’ve held all this hurt and shame inside. Oh dear, I wish there was something I could do to make you feel better.”
Drying her eyes again, Mrs. Edwards struggled valiantly for composure. “Would you like some more tea?”
The woman sipped the last drop and passed her cup for a refill. She stirred three lumps of sugar before firing the next question. “Who fathered Dayme Jo’s children? Was she married before?”
“Some man on that riverboat most likely. She beguiled my son just like Eve beguiled Adam. Somehow she found out that Morgan was in Texas and went out there. Of course, poor Morgan didn’t know what she’d been doing while he was away at war. But, in all fairness, I believe in giving the devil his dues. Dayme gave birth to only one of the boys, he said. The other belonged to a cousin who died during a Comanche Indian massacre. Morgan is raising both of them…Dayme’s bastard and the other one.”
“That girl,” Lida Mae stressed the words. “That girl was out to trap the first man she could find who would take her. I thought for certain she would trap Benjamin Farrington. For a while she had that man mesmerized. Remember that awful scene at church? Benjamin was so taken with the strumpet that he embarrassed the life out of me, and you and Brother James. That commotion caused a split in the church that hasn’t healed to this day. I was absolutely mortified when he took me to task over that blue calico dress he bought for her. You know yourself, Mary Margaret, a man doesn’t buy articles of apparel for a woman unless he’s sleeping with her!”
Lida Mae’s expression turned pious. “I suppose the hardest thing I ever did in my entire life was to forgive Benjamin. I did. I forgave him. If forgiveness were easy, the good Lord would never have commanded us to do it. As a Christian, I had to forgive him, but I’ll never forget it as long as I live!” Her eyes appeared even closer together as she pursed her lips. “Haven’t spoken to him since, and I never will.”
Mrs. Edwards suddenly realized she’d told the woman too much. She wished she could retract all those derogatory remarks about Morgan’s wife. She couldn’t believe she had actually told Lida Mae Peters, the biggest gossip in Vicksburg, of all people. Now everybody would know.
“Everybody in this town knew what that little trollop was,” Lida Mae babbled. “Everybody except Mr. Farrington, that is. The strumpet showed her colors when she left town on that pleasure boat. One man wasn’t enough. She was accustomed to many at the brothel. You can’t blame the men. It was there for them.”
Noticing the changed expression on Mrs. Edward’s face, Mrs. Peter’s voice trailed. “Of course, poor Morgan couldn’t have known.”
Morgan’s mother stood erect. “How dare you! Come into my home and speak such lies and insults about my daughter-in-law!”
“But, Mary Margaret,” the woman whined. “I thought…I thought….”
“Please go,” Mrs. Edwards told her coldly.
“But, my driver won’t be back until six.”
“Then, you can wait in the garden. Good day!”
Morgan came downstairs with his valise. He sighed heavily from the burden and grief he bore. He had been close to his father. He opened his arms and hugged his mother. “Dad’s affairs are in order,” he told her wearily. “The tombstone has been set. I paid off the mortgage and hired a staff of servants. You now have a housekeeper, a butler and the maid. I also hired a grounds keeper. I made a deal with Harve to take Dad’s old mare and care for her. All your debts are cleared, and there is money in the bank to care for your needs. I need to be on my way. Dayme and the children need me. Goodbye Mama. I’ll write you often.” He set the valise by the door.
“Morgan, please,” his mother begged. “I need you more than she does. Please, stay here with me in Vicksburg.”
“I love you, Mama. I love you dearly, but I love my wife, too. Dayme is my joy and my life. I adore our little boys, and maybe someday, the Lord willing, we’ll have more children. We come as a pair, Mama. Until you can welcome my wife with open arms and mean it, my visits will be few and far between. God bless you, Mama.” He left his mother weeping, and it troubled him, but he had to go.
Something else troubled him, too. It had troubled him for a long, long time. He headed for Larkspur Plantation.
“Cassie!” Mandy’s voice rang out from the foyer as she took Morgan’s coat and hat. “Come see who’s here!” She ushered him into the parlor. “I’ll fetch you some mint julep. Make yourself comfortable.”
As Cassie’s bulky frame ambled into the parlor, Morgan stood up to greet Benjamin’s old nanny he had known since childhood. “Same old Cassie plus a few more gray hairs.” He hugged her warmly.
“Well, land sakes! If it ain’t Mista Morgan. You jus’ look so good! Logan!” she yelled behind her. “Come in here! Mista Morgan has come callin’.” She seated her heavy body in a chair opposite Morgan. “Mercy me, you used to be such a skinny little feller when you’s little. My, you made a handsome man. How long has it been?”
“Ten years, at least. I’ve come to see Benjamin. Is he in?”
Cassie shook her head. “No, Suh. Mista Ben don’t live here no more. Just comes around once in awhile. Mista Ben, he’s a big lawyer now in Virginny. Fact is, Mista Ben writ to Miss Eppson….she’s the schoolteacher. He told her that him and his partner, Mista Andrew Moorhead, they done et supper with President Grant.”
Morgan raised an eyebrow. “Oh? I thought Ben was a Democrat. Never figured any Confederate would care to dine with the enemy general.”
The old woman’s voice cooled. “The war’s over, Mista Morgan. People gotta drift with the tide. Mista Ben is the best lawyer in the whole land,
and one of these days he’s gonna be settin’ in the Congress of these New Knighted States of America. He’s awful smart. President Grant asks Mista Ben’s advice ‘fore he does nothin’. Mista Ben is still a Democrat. Ain’t nothin’ gonna change that.”
Trying to hide his amusement, Morgan smiled. “The man’s come up in the world, to say the least.”
“Yes, Suh. He has, and I’m glad you’re not mad about it. He’s rich, too. Might near as rich as old Jay Gould. Rich as nine foot up a bull.” Cassie put her hands to her mouth, embarrassed. She apologized. “Excuse me, Mista Morgan. I had no call talkin’ like that.”
Logan’s cane could be heard clumping down the corridor on the hardwood floor. “Here comes that Logan,” she said. “He’s got deaf as a stick. Logan!” she shouted. “Logan, you ’member Mista Morgan? You know, used to come out here an’ play with Benjamin when he’s just a tadpole.”
“No, can’t say as I do.” Logan showed no recognition whatsoever.
“Old man Edward’s boy. The one with all them horses.”
Logan appeared confused for a moment, then his eyes lit up. “Well, I’ll swan. Never would’ve known you on the street.” The former slave crippled up to shake Morgan’s hand. “Don’t hear so good out o’ my left ear.”
“Harrumph,” Cassie muttered. “Left ear, thunder! Don’t hear out o’ neither one of ’em. Have to holler at him, Mista Morgan, to make him hear you.”
Mandy returned with cookies and mint julep on a silver tray. “They’re raisin and molasses cookies. Rosie made them this morning. They’re quite good.”
“Thank you,” Morgan replied, taking two.
“Will you be staying for dinner, Sir?”
“No. Just came by to see Ben. Cassie told me he lives in Virginia. I suppose you heard that my father died. We buried Dad last Monday.”
Child of the River Page 31
