The Diary of Mattie Spenser

by Sandra Dallas

  Mr. Bondurant is a bugle-bearded man with a bulbous nose the color of a plum, and but one eye, and a rheumy one at that, although it does not seem to affect his vision. He dresses in butternuts and buckskins, with a pistol strapped to one side of his belt, and a long knife, which he calls an “Arkansas toothpick,” to the other. He smells strongly, but then, I smell strongly myself these days. So I do not hold it against him. He repays our hospitality by playing his Jew’s harp whilst we sing, and telling us stories of his life on the Great Plains. Our first night, I told him of our experience with the Indians, and concluded that with so many of us banded together now, I, for one, was not afraid.

  “Then ye not be perspicacious,” said he.

  I thought Luke would rebuke him, but instead, Husband asked why that was so.

  “Because what you pilgrims run into was a family. Just now, we got a war party behind us. It’s as plain as the nose on your face. You bet. They’re all painted up, and they don’t have their women and little ‘uns along. They’re damned rascals, bidin’ their time, waitin’ till us’ns get careless.”

  Hearing that, Luke called a parley, and Mr. Bondurant informed all that we must keep together as we travel during the day, allowing neither children nor animals to wander off. The animals are to be pastured inside the circle of wagons at night, and we were told to double the guard. In the event of an Indian attack, we are to corral our wagons as quickly as possible. The men will shoot to kill. Women and boys are to reload the guns, allowing the shooters to keep up a steady fire. If the savages get the upper hand and all is lost, Mr. Bondurant warned, the men are to shoot first wives and children, and then themselves.

  One woman whimpered, her husband saying, “Here, here, Mr. Bondurant. There’s no reason to scare the ladies.”

  “You ought not to say that, for you ain’t seen what they do to white womens,” said Mr. Bondurant.

  “Well, I, for one, refuse to be frightened,” spoke up a woman. “I’m from Gettysburg. There’s nothing I haven’t seen.”

  “Them was Christian soldiers at Gettysburg, even if they was Johnny Rebs. You ain’t seen Indians at work, ma’am. Indians ain’t Christian. By ginger, they ain’t human,” replied our Mr. Bondurant.

  He guessed the savages would attack in the next day if they could catch our emigrant party unprepared. They lack patience for a sustained stalking, and like children, they allow their attention to be easily diverted. Mr. Bondurant explained that the Red Men do not work together as a fighting unit under the command of a senior officer, as do our soldiers. Instead, it is each man for himself. Here is an odd thing: They often prefer to strike the enemy with a stick than to kill him.

  Some of the men complained privately to Luke that Mr. Bondurant was a freebooter seeking our protection for his journey to the mines, and that he would secure it by spreading outrageous tales. Their complaints rose as we passed a night and day, and then another night, with the Indians keeping their distance. Luke, however, kept good discipline, even threatening to thrash one man who would not take his turn at guard. Some wives grumbled to me that Husband had become the little Napoleon, but I hotly defended Luke, saying he had crossed these plains before and had experience with the savages.

  The attack came early the next morning, just after we began our day’s journey. The hindmost wagon lagged behind. We do not know the reason for it. Perhaps it was carelessness. As we lost sight of it behind a hill, we heard the inhuman screams of the Red enemy, shrill and devilish enough to curdle milk. “We’re in for it now. Don’t crumple up!” Mr. Bondurant warned us.

  Some of the men wanted to go to the aid of the helpless family, but Mr. Bondurant shouted they were lost already, and that we would be, too, if we did not make haste. All hands sprang to action. We corraled our wagons and took our places inside the circle, where the bawling animals caused so much dust, we could scarcely see across the wagons. Luke brought out the shotgun and rifle, as well as a pistol, which he handed to me. He did not say anything, but I took his meaning: I was to shoot myself if he was unable to do the deed himself. I would have, too, for Mr. Bondurant had regaled Luke and me over the campfire with stories of what happens to white captives.

  We had taken our places but had not even had time to unhitch the oxen when the savages were upon us, yelling most horribly and threatening us with their lances. Most had bows and arrows, but we heard the sound of at least one rifle in the distance. I did not load for Luke, as Mr. Bondurant had instructed, but called upon a boy from the adjoining wagon to help us so that I could shoulder the shotgun.

  The Indians made a sortie at us, but we repulsed them. As they retreated over the hill, one man stood up with his rifle and gave out with what Luke said was the old Rebel yell, shouting, “Victory! The day is ours! We thumped them red niggers!”

  “Down, fool! Don’t risk your bones!” cried Mr. Bondurant, adding several crimson oaths, but before the Rebel could follow orders, he had an arrow in his side. The Indians bore down upon us once again, more ferociously than before. Mr. Bondurant yelled for us to hold our fire until they came close, so as not to waste bullets. I strained to hear his call above the cries of children and screams of animals that were maddened from the noise and pain of the arrows and the smell of blood. The savages were nearly upon the wagons, and I was filled with a mixture of fright and exultation when Mr. Bondurant called, “Spit fire on them!” and we let loose.

  Luke and I discharged our weapons at the same time and saw a warrier fall from his horse. “Got him, the old bastard!” Lukesaid. When the Indians made their retreat, they left behind five “good Indians,” as Mr. Bondurant calls the dead ones. We hastily checked our own band and found only one wounded, and that was the Rebel, who lay on the ground in great pain, his tallow-faced wife bending over him. In her haste to remove the arrow, she had broken it off. Mr. Bondurant said we must prepare for the next sortie. He would work the arrow loose later on—if the poor man yet lived.

  The savages made four more attacks, each of which we fought off. My face and hands were slick from the dust and perspiration and tears, and my shoulder ached from the recoil of the shotgun. The air smelled of rifle powder and hot blood from the wounded animals. When the savage brutes made their final charge, Mr. Bondurant called, “We’re in for it now.” Despite our fire, the enemy broke through our bulwark, into our circle.

  One warrior snatched up a little girl and would have made off with her if the mother had not grabbed at the horse, causing it to shy. The warrior raised his hand and crushed the mother’s skull with his wicked ax. Then an instant later, he was shot dead by one of our men, and he dropped the motherless child, breaking her arm. She clung to her dead parent with her good arm, the injured one hanging uselessly at her side, the tiny bone protruding from her sleeve. “O, Mama, Mama, wake up!” was her wrenching cry.

  Only a moment afterward, I saw a second Indian on foot come from behind a wagon and make a dash for Mr. Bondurant. My courage did not falter, and I raised my weapon and fired, the ball hitting the Red Man in the back. Mr. Bondurant turned at the Indian’s death rattle, and he saw the smoking shotgun in my hands. But at another cry, he turned again and raised his rifle, and one more savage lay dead.

  Our brave fighters held the field, and at last the cowardly Indians fled for good, taking their injured with them. Mr. Bondurant thought we were safe, but he warned us to keep a sharp lookout whilst we cared for our wounded. Besides the brave mother, two others were dead—a Mr. Jamison, from Galesburg, Illinois, and his son, aged fourteen. They leave behind a grieving wife and mother and three little ones.

  Our injured numbered six. The raw wound of one man looked as if he had been chewed by wild dogs, but he is recovering. The Rebel did not, and we endured his piteous moans and deathly jerks for three days, at which time, he went to the land of the here after. The wife blamed the death on Mr. Bondurant, whom she had begged to remove the arrow. He said he might have pulled it out, had the wife not broken it off, but in either case, he believed, the man
would have died. The woman was sick with grief, saying she would rather her husband had fallen in defense of the Old South than in this godforsaken land, among his Yankee enemies. Even so, we “enemies” hitched up her wagon each day and cared for her children and passed the hat so she could return to her old home. I prevailed upon Luke to purchase her small cookstove, which we will use in our new home, and he did so, although he pointed out payment was overgenerous; she had planned to abandon it.

  When Mr. Bondurant declared all was safe, several men went back to the hind wagon, where the Indians had slaughtered the family, all excepting for one small boy, the “least ’un,” as Mr. Bondurant describes him, whom they had carried off, and who has not been seen since. Mr. Bondurant believes he will be raised as an Indian.

  It was the Devil’s own day. The sight that greeted the men was a charnel house. Even in war, Luke said, he had not seen such vicious carnage as met his eyes at that wagon. Scalps had been taken, a most gruesome practice, of which I had heard but never imagined I should witness. The Indians do not take the whole scalp, as I had supposed, but a little plug of skin the size of a pawpaw, with the hair hanging from it. The bodies were horribly abused, arms and legs slashed and mutilation about the private parts. One man had had the sinews taken from his back, for use as bowstrings, Mr. Bondurant said. Even innocent children were not spared. I wept when I saw what the heathens had done to a little girl of about three, and I hope never again to prepare such bodies for burial. They go to their eternal rest under the prairie sod, with not but rocks to mark the spot.

  I thank God that Luke and I were unhurt, although I do not think I will ever again be as carefree as I was but a few days previous. In taking a human life, I, myself, broke one of God’s greatest Commandments. No one knows of it, even Luke, excepting Mr. Bondurant. But my secret is safe with him.

  “By ginger, I can thank your missus for saving my scalp, I’m a-telling you,” Mr. Bondurant informed Luke at supper that night. “That Indian devil—” He stopped when he saw me shaking my head furiously at him, and he took my meaning.

  It was too late, however, as Luke looked up, waiting for Mr. Bondurant to finish.

  “I suppose I can yell as loud as any Indian,” said I.

  “I’m in your debt,” Mr. Bondurant said, going back to his supper.

  I do not understand why I misled my husband, as I am as fond of tributes as any person, but killing a man, even if he was an Indian, makes me ashamed and unwomanly, and this time I do not care for praise. I hope this land does not unsex me.

  There is an irony in the events of the trail, for our lives here are the twain of both great and ordinary events: I discovered that following the Indian attack, the bread dough, which I had set in the morning, had raised nicely.

  July 5, 1865. Fort Kearney, Nebraska Territory.

  As Luke came back before I finished describing the events of our journey, I put away my diary and could not complete the story until now. My time had been taken up with chores here at Fort Kearney, where we have camped for two days. I have baked for the week and washed all our dirty clothes in the yellowish water of the Platte River, which is a poor stream when compared with our mighty Mississippi. Indeed, it is not even so grand as the brackish creek that runs through our Lee County farm. Mr. Bondurant says the Platte is a mile wide and an inch deep, and I think if we had just one more team of thirsty oxen, ’twould be even shallower.

  Luke is off to see if there are enough emigrants to start for Colorado. The commander here at Fort Kearney forbids our leaving until fifty wagons are assembled, although there are no reports of Indian deprivations to the west. Luke thinks the man is too lazy to send his troops to secure the area and wants the wagon trains to do his work for him. I, for one, shouldn’t mind waiting until we are a hundred wagons, because I shiver each time I think of engaging in another Indian battle.

  I would prefer to wait until the wind dies down, as well, although I have little hope of that, as the wind here is as constant as the prairie grasses. I had to wipe the dust from my eyes before I could prepare supper last night, and now I sit on the wagon seat, my writing desk in my lap, whilst the wind pushes the Conestoga to and fro like a rocking chair.

  To our great relief, we had no further sighting of the Red enemy. We passed many graves, which increased in number the farther we were from the Missouri, and I believe they are due to Indians, though I know dysentery and accidents take their toll.

  Savages were on all minds as our band continued on its journey, and each clump of bush and each skitterish antelope brought fresh cries of “Indians! Indians!” That along with the moans of the wounded kept us on edge night and day. One poor little fellow survived the attack that killed his father, only to die a few days later of the bloody flux. We came upon a body as black and shiny as charcoal, but the deceased was not a colored man; he was only a poor fellow whose remains had been in the sun too long. Our men buried him, after quick examination to determine that he had not been murdered by Red Men. We do not know how he died, or even who he was. I wonder if he has left behind in the States some poor wife who is destined to wait forever for word from her vanished mate.

  Of course, the day after the attack, I had one of my sick headaches, brought on by the excitement and the dust and the sun, which is far brighter here than at home. It is my habit to walk beside the oxen, but that day, I sat on the wagon seat, a scarf tied tightly around my head. With real suffering all around me, I was ashamed to ask Luke to relieve me with the oxen, but at last, I begged him to let me rest. Even then, I got no relief from the pain. Our wagon was piled so high with goods that I lay on a makeshift bed just under the wagon cover, and I could not have been hotter had I traveled in an oven. I forgot to bring with me the vinegar and brown paper that sometimes give comfort.

  It is not the first of my headaches that Luke has witnessed, but the worst so far, and he is some put out by my womanly weakness. I tried to cook supper, but I felt so faint from the smoke and dust that Mr. Bondurant took over the chore and stirred up a stew of stringy jackrabbit.

  I was ready with compliments, which so tickled Mr. Bondurant that he offered me a second helping. In reaching for the spoon, which had fallen into the grass, he was attacked by the largest rattlesnake I ever saw, which bit the end of his little finger. As Luke smashed the head of the offender with a rock, I made for the medicine chest in the wagon. But before I could prepare a poultice, Mr. Bondurant put his hand on the wagon wheel, and with the blade of his Arkansas toothpick, he cut off the tip of his finger. Then he thrust his hand into the flour barrel to stanch the bleeding. Mr. Bondurant has given his injury no further thought, and when he showed it to me this morning, I saw the finger had almost healed. I wondered how Mr. Bondurant had the nerve to do such a thing, and I took a good look at his hands, but there is no other sign of mutilation.

  My travail was not yet ended. Just before morning came a horrid rainstorm, which frightened me almost as much as the Indians. There was a terrible clashing of thunder, with flashes of lightning that seemed to break the sky in half, then a clatter of hailstones nearly as big as hens’ eggs. Next came an attack of rain so thick and wind so strong that I thought I would be washed overboard from our prairie schooner. The rain gave way to a sky of deepest black, no pinpoint of light from horizon to horizon. Then came a sunup such as I never saw—streaks of light, giving way to a sky of brilliant blue, and a rainbow. The raindrops on the grass appeared as a sprinkling of precious gems. What a strange land this is, with such violent contrasts. I am glad we will not live here. I should get lost with nothing to see but sky above and prairie grass below.

  We reached Fort Kearney late on July third, just in time to celebrate the Day of Independence (and our own deliverance from the Indians) with much jollification. The soldiers put on a splendid demonstration for us upon their parade ground, under the banner of Old Glory, which rose to the occasion under a strong wind. We gave three times three for the glorious Union and the safe return of our gallant boys in bl
ue, with me cheering most of all for my own soldier boy. We showed gratitude to God and country with prayer, gunshots (having brought with us no Chinese firecrackers), and hurrahs for our preserved nation. Then there were recitations, and the day ended with a reel. Since the men outnumbered the women, wallflowers were an unknown shrub, and I was in as much demand as Persia Chalmers would have been at home. One of my partners had a wooden leg, but that did not stop him from trodding on my feet with his one good. “Well, I tell you, I sure like to dance,” said he.

  I added to the festivities by mixing hailstones and peppermint leaves from a clump discovered by the river, to make a delicious ice cream, which was enjoyed by all who tasted it—even Mrs. Johnny Reb. A few of the soldiers participated too heartily in the revelry with a beverage that is known as Taos Lightning. Theirs is not an easy life here in this harsh land, so they will not be blamed by me.

  I see Luke hurrying toward me on Traveler. As he is not frowning, I think we must now number fifty wagons. And so, good-bye, little book. I may not see you again until we are on our own land, which I have named “Prairie Home.”

  Chapter 2

  July 24, 1865. Prairie Home, Colorado Territory, Two hundred nineteen miles west from Fort Kearney, a million miles from Fort Madison.

  We are home at last, but O, what disappointment met me! There is too much sky here, sky and endless prairie. I never saw a place as ordinary as this. I counted three trees on our land, and one of them is dead. No wonder this is called the Great “Plain.” What we lack in vegetation, we make up in dry weeds and rattlesnakes. Husband says to keep a stout stick at hand.

  Luke has gone to Mingo, which is the nearest town, some eight miles distant, where he will buy necessities. It is the first time I have been alone since arriving here, hence the first time I have been able to sit and write in this little journal. Tomorrow, Luke will cut out strips of the prairie using a sod plow and lay them like bricks to build the walls of our home. Who would have thought myself so anxious to claim a sod hut? I think it will be a little like living in a hole in the ground, but it has one advantage: It is dirt cheap.