Phoebe's Valentine

by Duncan, Alice

  “So,” he said to make himself feel better, “Miss Phoebe’s the one who taught you letters, is she?”

  Hosea’s deep, genuine chuckle coaxed a grin out of Jack. “She shore did. Sat us down every day and taught us our letters with slate boards and chalk. She was a right strict teacher, too.”

  “I bet she was.”

  “She whupped my hand more’n once with her ruler. But she warn’t mean with it.”

  Jack stared at the soldier. Hosea stood half a head taller than Jack’s own six feet, easy. Phoebe whupping this giant on the back of his hand with a ruler was something which took a good deal of imagination to picture. His grin got bigger.

  “She was a good teacher, though, a real good one. She give us more peppermints than whups. I reckon she thought she wasn’t doin’ much compared to the rest o’ them Honeycutts. But to us, she was the best of the lot.”

  “She was?”

  Hosea nodded, his eyes gone distant, as though he was lost in remembering. “She was, for sure. Her pappy, Mr. Beau Honeycutt—well, he talked in big words and highfalutin’ ways about rights and wrongs and what should be and what shouldn’t be. A newspaper man, he was. And her brothers, they was pretty high and mighty, too, always spouting their beliefs and such-like truck. Handsome boys, they was. Real handsome. And her sisters, well, they was dainty and pretty and worth about a plug nickel each, ‘specially that Miss Philippa.”

  “Really,” Jack murmured, afraid to say too much for fear the soldier would stop talking.

  Hosea nodded. “Miss Phoebe used to teach school on the farm. It was supposed to be against the law, but all the nearby plantation families who agreed with Mr. Beau used to send their slaves’ children to the school. Even some of ‘em who didn’t. You know, to educate us for when we was all freed. Mr. Beau, he used to say it was just a matter of time.”

  “I see.”

  “I guess some folks used to call Miss Phoebe and her family names and such.”

  “Did they live on a big plantation?”

  “Nah. We was on a house right outside of Atlanta. Big, pretty house with a little farm, but it wasn’t no tobacco or cotton plantation or nothin’. We had chickens and vegetables and a cow and such. It was just me and my mama and my sisters what lived there with the Honeycutts.”

  “That so?”

  “That’s so. Them Honeycutts . . .” Hosea’s voice trailed off, and he seemed to be looking down a long, dark hallway into distant memories. “Them Honeycutts, they talked a good story. A hell of a good story.”

  Jack murmured something inarticulate.

  “But Miss Phoebe, why, she didn’t spout no philosophies or high-soundin’ words or nothin’. She just dug in there and worked to help us learn. Treated us just like we was people, like anybody else. None of them others did that, not even her daddy.”

  Hosea’s grin went almost cynical, and it surprised Jack. “Guess they could love us as a cause, but didn’t want no truck with us as people. Then they went off to war and left the womenfolk all by theirselves.

  “Her mama, she didn’t last very long after Mr. Honeycutt joined up. Then Miss Philippa sickened up and died.” Hosea shook his head sadly. “Poor Miss Phoebe cried and cried after Miss Philippa died, even though Miss Phoebe used to have to do all the work for both of ‘em, ‘cause Miss Philippa was plumb useless. That left Miss Phoebe to run the place, and she tried so damned—sorry, sir—so hard all the time, it like to make us sick to see her. We done all we could to help her.

  “And then, when them soldiers come through Atlanta, why, I reckon she saved us all.” Hosea’s faraway expression got so sad, Jack had to turn away from it. “It was a black night, Mr. Valentine. A black, bad night. Miss Phoebe, she almost didn’t make it. She saved us all. Every one of us. Almost got herself kilt doin’ it, too.”

  Jack couldn’t hide his pride. “That’s my Phoebe, all right.”

  “Named myself Honeycutt for her, if I was to be honest, not them other ones.”

  “Good reason.”

  They got to the wagon and stared at the mangled wheel together, neither one thinking about the wheel. After a moment or two, Hosea spoke again.

  “Say, Mr. Valentine, I know it ain’t none of my business, but I’m right fond of Miss Phoebe. She been sort of my . . . my guiding light, you see what I mean. You got designs on her? If you does, they better be honest, ‘cause I don’t hold with no man messin’ with Miss Phoebe.”

  He said his piece lightheartedly, but Jack could hear the steel behind Hosea’s smile. The grim truth, if Jack read him right, was that, white man or not, Hosea would murder him if he dishonored Phoebe Honeycutt.

  “My intentions are strictly honorable, Corporal Honeycutt.”

  Hosea eyed him narrowly for a second or two and then nodded. Jack didn’t need to hear him to say, “They’d better be.” The words came across loud and clear in the corporal’s attitude.

  As soon as they’d inspected the wagon, Hosea set his men to work making the wagon travel-ready once more. They’d carried blacksmithing equipment and wooden dowels and slats to mend the broken axle. They’d brought four wheels, just in case, but they only needed one. Hosea said they could take the broken wheel back to the fort and mend it there.

  By supper time, both Jack and Hosea declared the little party ready to resume their trip on the morrow.

  # # #

  Corporal Hosea Honeycutt joined Jack and Phoebe and the rest of their multi colored group around the fire in the evening after supper. Pete and Antelope eyed the corporal suspiciously, but sat still and listened. William and Sarah were brim-full of excited questions about life as an Indian fighter on the plains and pelted Hosea with all of them.

  Phoebe felt uncomfortable about her chattering relatives, what with two verified Comanches staring stonily into the fire in front of them. Every time William asked Hosea something about hunting Indians, as though “Indians” were some kind of game animal, Phoebe winced.

  At last she couldn’t stand it any longer. “I believe that’s enough chatter about guns and such.” She looked pointedly at Pete and Antelope, neither of whom lifted their heads.

  Hosea looked a little sheepish, Sarah and William grumpy.

  Jack, who sat beside her, muttered, “It’s all right, Phoebe. Pete and Antelope are used to this sort of thing.”

  She peered at him sharply. “How in heaven’s name can anybody possibly get used to this?”

  Jack apparently had no answer. He just shrugged.

  The rest of the 10th Cavalry Unit made their camp a little ways off from them.

  After a while, William and Sarah began to ask questions again. They avoided the subject of Indians. With what seemed like infinite patience, Hosea answered every question hurled at him. He showed a bright-eyed William all of his gear and explained how each piece of equipment was used.

  Phoebe held her new child snugly in her lap, and made sure the little girl felt as secure as she could possibly make her feel. A glance at her face every now and then told Phoebe a sense of security was something that couldn’t be achieved in an evening. The little girl sat so close to her, Phoebe got the impression the baby would crawl inside her clothes if she’d let her.

  After a while, though, as the fire died down and the talk became desultory, William and Sarah began to yawn.

  “Jack,” Phoebe said quietly, “since I don’t want to disturb the baby, will you please see William and Sarah to their bedrolls?”

  “We don’t need help, Aunt Phoebe,” a disgruntled William muttered.

  “Nevertheless, William, I’d prefer it if Mr. Valentine would see you to bed. You never know what . . . what kinds of unfamiliar creatures might be waiting for you. Mr. Valentine is acquainted with the territory, and you are not.”

  With a wink, Jack said, “C’mon, Bill. Let’s make sure there’s no cougars waiting in Sarah’s bedroll to eat her up.”

  Sarah giggled. Phoebe cried, “Cougars? You never told me there were cougars around here!”
/>   Jack’s chuckle, as it receded into the darkness, made her scowl. “That man.”

  Hosea’s deep laugh lightened her mood some, but she still felt annoyed. “He’s always making fun of me, Hosea.”

  “I reckon it’s only ‘cause he cares for you, Miss Phoebe. A feller won’t tease a lady he don’t like.”

  “He won’t?”

  “‘Course not.”

  Phoebe sighed deeply. “Well, I don’t know about that, but I can’t tell you how happy I am to see you again, Hosea, and to know you’re doing so well. Do you keep in touch with your mama and sisters?”

  “Yes’m. My mama’s in Boston, Massachusetts, now with Sissy and Beulah. They’ve took the name Honeycutt, too, ma’am.”

  “I’m glad.” Phoebe was more than glad. She was proud.

  “Mama’s workin’ for some rich politician back there, in his big old house, and Sissy and Beulah is doin’ maid-work in a fancy hotel there. Sissy got married last August.”

  “Oh, my goodness. It doesn’t seem possible.”

  Hosea eyed Phoebe from across the fire. “What about you, Miss Phoebe? What you doin’ out here in the territory. This ain’t no place for a fine lady like you.”

  Breathing deeply, Phoebe said, “Well, there didn’t seem to be anything else to do, Hosea. I—had to sell the farm, you see.”

  “Aw, Miss Phoebe. I’m real sorry.”

  She lifted her shoulders, trying to shrug off the pain gnawing at her. “Well, one has to do what one has to do, I reckon. We’re headed to Santa Fe. My uncle Fred lives in Santa Fe. I’m hoping he’ll give us a place to stay until I find work.”

  “You gonna work? To support you and them kids?”

  Phoebe didn’t care for the skepticism she detected in the corporal’s voice. “Indeed, I shall, Hosea. The good Lord knows, I’m used to hard work.”

  “Well, I know that’s the truth, Miss Phoebe, but—well, that’s real hard to do, supportin’ all them kids, you bein’ a lady alone.”

  “I know,” Phoebe said with another sigh.

  Hosea cocked his head quizzically. “What about Mr. Valentine, Miss Phoebe? I reckon it ain’t none of my business, but ‘pears to me, he might have somethin’ to say about you workin’ yourself to death in Santa Fe.”

  Phoebe’s astonishment was unfeigned. “Why, I don’t know what you’re talkin’ about, Hosea. Mr. Valentine is just guiding us to Santa Fe.”

  Hosea said nothing; he just stared at her for a moment or two.

  Jack came back, and he and Phoebe exchanged a smile that made Hosea shake his head. A little grin settled on his face. “I see how it is, Miss Phoebe. I see.”

  She shot him a look, but he only smiled at her.

  When Antelope got up from his log and stretched, Phoebe gave a start. She’d forgotten all about him and Pete Spotted Pony. Neither man had spoken a word all night.

  “Reckon we’ll be goin’ to bed, too,” Antelope told them.

  Pete didn’t say a thing. He only rose and strolled off to his bedroll.

  “Good night,” Phoebe said softly. Neither man acknowledged her.

  “Them two ain’t from around here, are they?” Hosea followed them with his gaze.

  Jack answered him. “No. They’re from Texas. Comanches.”

  Hosea nodded. “Thought so.”

  “Bounty hunters.”

  Another nod.

  “Pete took in . . . took in that man’s body for bounty.”

  “Ah, yes. I recollect that.”

  The toddler had gone to sleep in Phoebe’s arms. Phoebe stared into her small face and felt compelled to ask, “Hosea, why would the Army shoot a woman holding a baby?”

  Both Hosea and Jack turned to peer at her, then looked away. Jack gazed at the ground and Hosea stared into the dying fire.

  Just when Phoebe thought she’d have to repeat her question, Hosea answered her, quietly. “It’s a job, Miss Phoebe. It’s about the only job I could get.”

  She looked at him for a long time. She tried not to sound reproachful when she whispered, “To shoot women and children? Is that your job.”

  Hosea gave his head a discouraged shake. “Well, I don’t know nothin’ about that little gal nor her mama, Miss Phoebe, but I can tell you that you just can’t always tell. Bullets don’t know nothin’ about women and children. In a battle, everything’s sort of noisy and scary and dusty and confusin’. I expect that little baby’s mama ain’t the only one who’s been hit by mistake. This is a war, ma’am, and war’s pure hell. It’s just pure hell.”

  It was Jack who murmured, “I think somebody else said that once, Hosea.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  “You mean you’re not coming with us to Santa Fe?” Sarah’s voice shook with shock and distress.

  Antelope reached down to place a rough brown hand on her golden braids. “You got the Army to help you now, Sarey gal. We’re headed out to look for a bad man. You don’t need us no more.”

  “Yes, I do.” The little girl had to wipe tears from her cheek.

  Antelope’s grin went a little lopsided. “Now, why do you think you need us when you got the U.S. Army to guard you?”

  “Because you’re my friends!” Sarah wailed.

  Antelope and Pete Spotted Pony exchanged a glance. Jack and Phoebe had been watching the good-byes from a few feet away. Phoebe reached for Jack’s hand and he squeezed hers.

  “Tell you what, Sarey gal. I got something for you and Bill here. Something to remember us by. All right? And any time you want to remember old Pete or old Antelope, all you got to do is haul this out and take a peek at it, and you can remember.” He reached into a leather pouch hanging from his waist.

  “What-what is it?” Sarah’s shaky voice made Phoebe’s heart hurt.

  “It’s a horse I carved. Here’s one for Bill, too.”

  William had been doing his very best to be valiant; Phoebe recognized the symptoms. Now, as he reached out and wrapped his fingers around Antelope’s gift, she saw him swallow hard and knew he was trying not to cry.

  “Thank you,” the boy said very softly.

  “Those are powerful charms, Sarah and Bill. Strong medicine. Treat ‘em with respect.”

  “Strong medicine?” Sarah’s blue eyes went round, her sadness shoved aside for a moment.

  “Sure. Big medicine in them horses. Horses are sacred to us Comanche, you know.”

  Phoebe lifted a questioning eyebrow at Jack. He smiled gently and shook his head, and she smiled, too. It was a sweet lie, though, if it was a lie. Phoebe felt like bawling.

  “I wish we had something to give you,” the gentlemanly William said. His voice sounded strong, and Phoebe was proud of him.

  Antelope looked at the two children for a minute before he said, “I reckon friendship’s about the greatest gift a person can give anybody, Bill. Sarah.”

  Then, with a wave to Jack and Phoebe, and another smile for Sarah and William, the two Comanche cousins wheeled their horses around and trotted away, through the Pecos River, and back over the burned-off stubble that used to be Texas scrub. Phoebe waved to them long after they had become twin puffs of dust in the distance. Then she heaved a big sigh.

  “I’m sorry to see them go.”

  Jack dropped her hand and hugged her shoulder. “I confess to being a little surprised at hearing you say that, Miss Phoebe.”

  She looked at him thoughtfully, hugging him back. “I reckon we just had a difference of opinions at first. Sort of a clash of upbringings or something.”

  “I reckon.” Jack kissed he cheek, startling her.

  “Look, Aunt Phoebe! Look what Antelope gave us!” Sarah darted over and held up her carved wooden horse in both hands, as though it were a religious icon. “Antelope says it’s magic.”

  “He didn’t either say that,” William corrected heavily, his mind obviously upon loftier things than magic. “He said they were powerful medicine. That’s Indian talk.”

  Sarah glared at him. “Well, it sounds lik
e magic to me.”

  William gave her a sarcastic big-brother look. “That’s because you’re a stupid girl and don’t know anything.”

  Jack laughed. “All right, you two. Let’s stop fussing at each other and get going. Sarah, you hop into the back of the wagon. Phoebe, are you going to hold the baby? I’ll drive the wagon while Bill takes Lucky for the first few miles.”

  Phoebe gave him a big smile. “Thank you, Jack. I did want to keep close tabs on the poor little thing today. This is all so new to her, and she’s just lost her mama and all.”

  “Figured as much.”

  Phoebe’s feelings were mixed when Jack slapped the reins against the mules’ backs and the wagon rolled into motion. Hosea and his unit of the 10th Cavalry followed, ready to protect them all from danger until they all got safely to Santa Fe.

  She held her new daughter on her lap and stared behind as they left their camp. She had to swallow the lump in her throat when she observed the mound of earth that marked the baby’s mother’s grave. Soon, she knew, the relentless wind and weather would work its art on the little hump and then there would be nothing left to distinguish that one piece of earth from the rest of the vast territorial plain. Nothing would remain to tell the world a woman lay buried there; the mother of a child; one more tragic victim of a violent time.

  The notion distressed Phoebe terribly. Her mind pictured the tidy cemetery back home, and she felt an upwelling of despair. They hadn’t even made the poor woman a cross. Not that a cross would have been appropriate.

  I didn’t even know her name. I can’t even tell this poor child what her mother’s name was. What her own name is. It was such a melancholy thought that Phoebe decided she’d better not dwell on it or she’d be in tears in another second.

  “What’re you thinking about, Phoebe?”

  She gave a start of surprise. “Oh! Oh, I don’t know. Just thinkin’ about what happened back there.”

  “I guess a lot happened, all right.”

  “Yes.”

  After a moment of silence, Phoebe said, “Do you suppose we should have marked the grave, Jack?”

  “With what?”