The Diary of Mattie Spenser

by Sandra Dallas

  That evening, after the Earleys left, Luke and I finished the Christmas syllabub, which I had prepared from wine and sugar, without benefit of eggs. (Nonetheless, it was as tasty as the authentic item.) I am an abstainer, but I do not believe Our Lord would disapprove of a taste of wine at Christmas to celebrate the birth of His Son, and the anticipation of our own.

  Luke and Self talked of all that had happened to us in the year just ending, and we sang together several favorite Christmas songs. Then I told him his most important Christmas gift was yet to come—an heir, who is due late in the spring, early June, if I have figured it correctly.

  Luke hugged me hard, then drew back, asking if he had hurt me. I laughed and told him both baby and I enjoyed hugs. I find Carrie was right, and I am not quite so adverse to the matrimonial bed as I once was. Still, I shall be glad enough to dispense with it until after Baby’s arrival. My condition only intensifies my feelings for Luke. On impulse, as we sat talking, I took Luke’s hand between mine and told him how glad I was we had joined our lives together, that I loved him dearly and considered myself the luckiest girl in the world. Luke squeezed my hand in way of reply. I had expected to be fond of my husband, but I did not know that love of him would give me such a terrible ache in my heart. Perhaps I love him too well, too passionately. Luke does not talk of such things, so I can only wonder if he returns my ardor.

  Husband is stamping his feet outside, and so I must bid adieu to the old year and its many blessings and welcome 1866, wondering if it will hold as many joys and surprises as did its predecessor.

  Chapter 3

  February 17, 1866. Prairie Home.

  It is white outside as far as the eye can see, the ground covered in snow, and the sky above so close to it in shade that I discern no horizon. Neither sagebrush nor buckbush stands out as landmark. Little wonder that Mr. Bondurant (who has spent this winter in Mingo and talks of taking up a homestead), calls our snowstorms “whiteouts.” I think this must be a little like living inside a snowball. I would record the temperature, but our thermometer froze and burst last month. The Earley boys call when the storms abate, lifting our spirits with their amusing stories of the weather. Moses recalled a man who went to sleep while soaking his feet in water and awoke to find them encased in a block of ice. Tom told of another man lost in the storm, who dug himself a hole in the side of a stream bank for shelter. He was found, frozen in a ball, and had to be buried in a square coffin, as his family did not want to wait until he thawed.

  When Luke goes to Mingo now, he paints dark lines under his eyes with soot to keep the glare of sun on snow from blinding him. So marked, he looks like a raccoon, though I keep that humorous thought to myself. Husband is vain, and he does not take kindly to jokes about his person. I fear for him during his trips to town now. He could become lost in the fierce blizzards, which are the worst I ever saw. I keep my concerns to myself, however, because Luke grumbles so when there is no activity to occupy him.

  I take the time to enter a few words on this disagreeable day as I wait for the bathwater to warm. All available pans are filled with snow and sit on the stove to melt. I shall bathe at leisure, knowing I need not worry about Husband coming into the house and finding me stark.

  There is much to tell. First, in order of the events, my own Self. I am well, with none of the sickness that others in this state complain of. Were I able to button my dress, I would not even know I was enceinte. Luke is the best of husbands and offers his assistance so that I may rest. This morning, he rose early, ground the coffee, brewed it, and brought me a cup, whilst I stayed abed, a true shirker. Emmie Lou, the first here to whom I confided my state, says I must let Luke do whatever he will now, for husbands do not offer their aid in further pregnancies.

  My condition is no longer a secret, here or in Fort Madison. After I announced the coming event to Luke, I wrote of it to Mother, who was not well, and she asked Mary to read the letter aloud. There was much whooping among the sisters, and although Mother cautioned them to keep the letter’s contents to themselves, she might have easier asked the sun not to rise. Carrie wrote that even Persia Chalmers was aware of it and straight away demanded the truth. Carrie was pleased to mimic her, repeating the question, as is Persia’s way, saying, “Is Mattie with child? Why, I wonder at your propriety in asking such a thing, Persia,” thereby giving her no answer. Little wonder Persia was quite out of sorts. Poor girl! Does she yet pine for Luke? Well, he is my Darling Boy, not hers.

  Husband’s last trip to Mingo brought a letter with the good news that Carrie is now the proud mama of a healthy eight-pound boy. Well done, my dearest friend! He is named William for his father and called Billy, but I think of him as Wee Willie.

  Carrie told me all about her confinement, as we keep no secrets from each other. Thanks be to God that her pains lasted but six hours. Will was half-crazed looking for the doctor, who was found at last in a billiard hall and arrived after the deed ’twas done, although he took the credit and demanded payment. It was Carrie’s mother and sisters who did the honors.

  Childbirth is painful, but bearable, Carrie writes. It hurts less than a broken arm, and the discomfort ends once the birth is over, when, instead of a splinted limb, there is a dear little babe for all the trouble. The way Carrie describes them, I think the pains must be like those we felt as girls, when we ate green corn and paid for it with bowel complaint. I shall know all these things myself soon enough.

  I have given thought to whom I shall call upon for assistance with my confinement. Missus made it clear that she has experience, but as she failed to be of much help with Emmie Lou at Mingo and has proved herself to be more than common, I do not trust her. Emmie Lou could not leave her little ones (and is, herself, once more in this condition). Miss Figg is clean and matter-of-fact, and I would put my faith in her, but she has not expressed interest, and I could not take her away from her homestead, where she is responsible for all the work. Mr. Bondurant is a first-rate doctor, although I do not know if he has performed in this particular capacity. I do not think Luke would approve of him anyway, and I myself fear he might staunch any cuts by dropping me into a barrel of flour! If no other opportunities present themselves, I shall send for Jessie. She is a worker and saved the day for Emmie Lou. Besides, she washed her hands before aiding in that birth, and I prize cleanliness. What care I for Jessie’s unsavory past when the safety of my own little stranger is at stake?

  The same mail brought sad news from home. Sister Mary wrote that Mother lost the little one she carried, and while I think the Lord knew what He was doing on that account and do not grieve for the babe that never was, I cannot but wonder why He started the business in the first place. Mother has had enough burden placed upon her in this life. Sister wrote she was still in bed, three weeks after the event. The girls give her loving care, but as firstborn, I suffer, knowing that I cannot be there. My first memory in this life is toddling into her room with daisies after brother Randolph was born. Out here, so far from home and family, I feel as if I were living on the Moon—or in Oregon, which is not much different. When will I ever see my mother’s dear face again? I pray that Luke brings home a letter telling of her complete recovery.

  All this thought of childbirth makes me wonder why women are made to suffer so. Why must new life be paid for with pain? The preachers say it is because we are the daughters of Eve and must be punished for her sin, but in my Bible, Adam, too, fell from grace, and I do not see that his sons suffer for it. Would it not be better to pluck a babe from off the ground, just as we do cabbages? Of course, it would be my luck to select one that was green and wormy.

  February 18, 1866. Prairie Home.

  Luke has not returned, and I am on pins with worry. I barely slept a wink last night, due to Baby’s quickening and my fear for Luke’s safety. I turned up the lamp in the window as high as I dared, less afraid of burning down the house (does a soddy burn? I wonder) than of Luke’s missing the light in the storm and passing on by. Whenever I heard a
sound, I threw off the coverlets (we sleep under eight of them to keep warm) and opened the door in hopes of seeing my husband, but all I got for my trouble was a swirl of sharp, stinging snow. I turned blue as a pigeon from the frigid air. Our old friend Mr. Bondurant says it is cold enough in Colorado to freeze the smoke in the chimney, and one must open the door to let it out.

  Now that it is daylight (or what passes for daylight in a whiteout), I know that Luke likely stopped for the night in Mingo, or took shelter with a neighbor. When I went out to feed the animals, holding fast to the rope twixt house and barn whilst the storm’s cold and angry breath pushed me about, I prayed that was so, since one can scarce see more than a yard in any direction. Luke knows I value his safety over my own peace of mind, and he would not have hurried home on my account. But what if he started off before the storm’s fury? I stir the soup, then go to window and door, and in such fashion have I spent the day. It has taken several hours to record just these lines, as I keep running to look outside, believing I hear Traveler.

  I shall never understand why Luke loves this place with its burning summers and icy winters. What I would not give for the gentle snows of home and the sounds of sleigh bells announcing the arrival of friends.

  As I was feeding the animals, my eye caught a place where the barn’s sod wall had fallen away, revealing a paper object. I am not a snoop and did not stop to think the hidden item might be of a private nature, but I reached for it and found myself holding a photograph of Persia Chalmers. I cannot guess why Luke placed it there. Perhaps it fell out of his photograph album and he set it on the sod, then forgot it. Though it is not my nature, I was a trifle jealous when I compared Persia’s glossy curls, cascading like a silken waterfall, and corseted form with my own dry hair and bloated shape. I wondered if Luke saw the difference and found me wanting. I thought of replacing Persia’s likeness with one of Abner, but I do not have Abner’s photograph. So Luke is spared an unpleasant discovery.

  After dwelling on the matter of the picture, I have concluded I was a little cross at finding it. I will not question Luke, however, for I do not want to be among that piteous group of women who consider their husbands unworthy of trust. So, resolving to confide the discovery only to my journal, I opened my trunk and reached inside for the little book. My hand touched a crumb of chocolate, which must have fallen there during our wedding journey. As there is no chocolate stocked in Mingo, I had not tasted it since Christmas, and I thought it a reward for my steadfastness. So I gobbled the morsel right up, with not a thought for Luke, who cares for chocolate, too. Then I cried and cried for my greediness. This wretched country!

  I have just returned from looking out the door for the hundredth time, and I have smudged the page with the snow that attached itself to my sleeve. Rereading this entry, I am ashamed at my lack of faith in my husband, and I fear my fretfulness will result in a peevish child. The wind has died and the snow is stopped, and a tiny bit of blue shows through the white. Like the weather, I have found calm and shall reward Self (and babe) with a cup of the good tea and a dish of snow ice cream, made with sugar, a drop of vanilla, and snow, whilst I wait for my “white” knight.

  February 19, 1866. Prairie Home.

  Well, of course, Luke is safe! My thanks to Divine Providence for his return. Having been caught in the storm, he took refuge in an abandoned adobe house not far from Mingo and waited there until the blizzard had passed. Luke knew I would worry and left the instant the last flakes fell. I was so glad to see Husband that I threw my arms around him and shed a few tears.

  He was stiff from the chill air, and, fearing he would take cold, I quickly removed his boots and filled a basin with tepid water for his feet, which were frostbitten. Luke shook so as he sat there that I warmed his flannel nightshirt and woolen stockings by the stove and put him to bed, where he ate his supper. Then I did his chores for him.

  I think the cold affected his head just a little, for he said he had been frightened (the first time I ever heard Luke admit a fear), not knowing if he would reach safety. When I got into bed beside him, Luke said he was never so glad to see a sight in his life as the smoke curling up from our Prairie Home and that he never tasted a thing as good as my soup. Then he hugged me hard, and so forth.

  March 13, 1866. Prairie Home.

  Does winter in this country never end? At home, the crocuses are blooming and the tulips are sending up their pretty heads, but here in Colorado Territory, there is snow, snow, and more snow. Just when I think spring is ready to show her face, why there comes another storm, turning the sky and earth the color of lead. A few days ago, we had a chinook wind, as Mr. Bondurant calls it, that melted so much snow that I could see bare patches of ground. But after a few days of teasing, winter returned. How can anyone call such a country home? Husband, that is who. He has already begun the spring plowing.

  I blame my condition for my black moods, because cheerfulness has always been my nature. When things seem darkest, I put aside my work and go to piecing, since the bright colors rouse me. I saved the blue paper that comes wrapped around the cones of sugar, and last week, I soaked it in water, producing a beautiful indigo dye that I used to color a piece of muslin. Combined with the tiniest scraps from my piece bag, my new blue material will be turned into a Postage Stamp quilt for Baby. In Carrie’s last letter, she included a snippet of lawn with an odd design of squares. She had fashioned it into a Sunday dress for her first outing since the birth of Billy, only to discover Persia wearing a garment made from the same goods! Though Carrie laughed aloud, Persia was quite put out.

  Carrie said to use the scrap for a crazy quilt, which is all the rage back home. The scrap looks much like the dress that Persia wore in the picture Luke had secreted in the barn, but why would Luke have a picture of Persia taken so recently? Even Persia would not be bold enough to send her likeness to a married man. I looked for the photograph to compare to the piece of lawn, but it is no longer there, and I believe Luke has thrown it away.

  There is little to do day after day in a house that measures just eighteen by fifteen feet, so I spend some of my time reading Dr. Chase’s Recipes. He will be of little aid in parturition but is indispensable in other matters, and will be a great help after Baby arrives. Little did I know when I put the good doctor into my trunk that we would become such intimate friends.

  March 15, 1866. Prairie Home.

  At last, I made up my mind to have Jessie attend me when the time comes, and I told Luke as much. He asked wouldn’t I rather have Missus, but I replied that I had concluded she would be as much use as singing hymns to a dead mule. Luke gave me no argument, suggesting I write Jessie a note, which he will deliver to her directly. He even proposed making a special trip to town for that purpose. I asked could Jessie read, and Luke replied she could indeed, since it is she who sorts the mail.

  I was surprised when Luke agreed so quickly about Jessie, but I discovered the reason a short time later when he asked, “What would you think of my going back to Fort Madison?” To which I replied, “Not much.” I supposed he thought that, tit for tat, I would favor the idea, but I do not, and it is now the subject of much disagreement between us.

  The purpose of such a journey, says Luke, is to investigate a new type of wheat seed that may be suited for our dry prairie climate. Little else seems to grow here, with the exception of potatoes. But I think there is another reason. I believe his mama is demanding his presence. I think a letter arrives from her in every mail, though Luke does not share them with me. (That does not hurt my feelings, because I do not share Carrie’s letters with him, at least not until read by Self to determine whether there is a private message, as there ’most always is.)

  Luke’s plan is to go as soon as he finishes the planting and return before Baby is due, which by my best reckoning is early June, and he wants to leave me behind! I protested vigorously, but Luke was firm, saying that going alone, he could make the trip in half the time. Besides, said he, the journey was too strenuous for a w
oman in my condition, as if thousands of women in the same circumstance have not already crossed these plains! When I suggested waiting until after the babe’s arrival, Luke argued that delaying the trip until the harvest meant we would take our chances with blizzards. He knows how I fear storms.

  When I brought up the subject of the Indians, Luke said not one of the Red Men has been seen in our vicinity this year, and it is the general opinion in Mingo that they had been chased to the north. Then Luke remarked he had chosen me for a wife because I was levelheaded and had said as much in his proposal. He had not expected me to turn into an example of frail femininity, of a sudden.

  Luke believed with that argument he had turned aside all objections, but he could not counter one. I told him I refused to let him go. It was the first time I have refused Luke a thing, and he was much upset. He tried to change my mind again this morning at breakfast, and when he could not, he stomped out, thinking his displeasure would influence me. On this one thing, however, I stand firm. Luke’s duty is to me, not to his mama.

  March 20, 1866. Prairie Home.

  Luke talks of nothing but the trip to Fort Madison, trying to persuade me, first with compliments and a bouquet of prairie blossoms, then with sulks and ill temper. Sometimes, I am so weary from his arguments that I am tempted to give in. Then I think of spending weeks alone in this country in my state, and I refuse once again. I do not understand why he has his heart set on the trip when I need him beside me. Luke promises to be home well before Baby’s arrival, would not attempt the trip otherwise, says he, but I do not want him to leave at all.