I laugh at my concern that I would look the country bumpkin, for people dress in all manner of apparel, from coats made of blankets, favored by those who live in the mountains, to sackcloth and ashes, worn by one poor soul, who stood on a corner and prophesied Armageddon, arriving one week hence. The multitudes did not worry themselves with impending doom, but cheerfully wished him well. Men are not the only ones who are strangely dressed. From the window of the hotel, I saw a woman wearing rainment so gaudy, I thought her to be a harlot, but Mrs. Chubb told me she was a social leader of the city. And when I witnessed a funeral procession made up of carriages filled with the most fashionable women and dignified gentlemen, why, I was told the caisson bore the body of a strumpet who had been a favorite of the town.
We saw many tempting items in the shop windows, but I had vowed to be prudent, and so I passed them by on my way to W. Graham Drugstore, which Mrs. Chubb had recommended for items indispensable for a lady’s toilette. She herself has found it a reliable source of the Indian hemp she takes for nerves.
I located the store with no trouble, finding it complete in every way, except that it lacked a soda-water fountain. I was explaining to Mr. Graham how to concoct the mixture of rosewater, oil of nutmeg, oil of lavender, and tincture of cantharides that would return my hair to its normal hue, remarking such items were not available in Mingo. But before he could prepare it, an attractive woman rushed into the establishment and demanded his immediate attention.
“You’ll have to wait your turn. As you can see, I am busy,” he told her. I was in no hurry and happy to look about, so I offered to let her precede me, which she did without the slightest acknowledgment or thanks.
“You must help me,” she said in a whisper to Mr. Graham that was just loud enough for me to hear.
“I have done so before, Lila Kate, and I am not inclined to again,” he said.
“But you must. I am in the worst kind of pickle. Nigger Mag’s gone, and who else is there?”
“Do you not know of the new woman on upper Holladay Street? She will perform the operation.”
“Yes, for ten dollars. Now where’s a poor girl like me to get ten dollars? Shoot, I’d as easy get a hundred.”
I believe Mr. Graham glanced my way, but I was studying the directions on a packet of tea (the directions being written in Chinese, which language he must have supposed I could read) and pretended not to be listening.
“You can get it the way you always do,” Mr. Graham said.
At that, the woman broke into tears, and Mr. Graham agreed to sell her what she desired, leaving us alone whilst he went into the back of the store.
When he could not be seen, I gave her a friendly glance, as one woman does to another, but she mistook my meaning and put her nose into the air.
Returning, Mr. Graham caught her look of disdain. “Don’t you bother the customers,” he told her sternly, setting a blue envelope on the counter. I moved farther away but continued to observe the woman as she took a coin from her purse and handed it to him. Mr. Graham shook his head. “No, Lila Kate, you keep it, but don’t you come back here again. This is the last time.”
The woman muttered a reply, which I could not hear, for I had moved away and was studying a packet of opium powder.
“I expect you’ll come out well ahead this time. Knowing you, you’ll tell as many men as possible they’re responsible for your condition. You’ll likely get ten dollars from each one,” he said as the wretched woman left the store.
I was not so green that I did not know about cyprians, but I was innocent of a woman’s attempt to extort money from her distressing condition. The matter did not appear to disturb Mr. Graham, who clapped his hands a few times to make Johnnie laugh, then hummed under his breath as he readied my hair preparation. He charged me $1.50 for it, his generosity, apparently, extending only to soiled doves.
Johnnie and I walked along the street until we came to Greenleaf & Company, which we entered to purchase a tin of spiced oysters and a dozen of the best cigars for Luke. Husband does not use tobacco as a habit, but he enjoyed a cigar with Mr. Talmadge and told Tom he wished he could offer him one. Luke spends but little money on himself, and I have a small amount put away from my teaching days, so I thought to surprise him with the purchase. My little “bank” is known to me alone, for Luke did not inquire when we married whether I was a woman of fortune, and I did not offer the intelligence, for I believe a woman should have a little cash of her own. It is not fair that both husband and wife work together and yet the money belongs to the man and the woman must ask for an allowance. Since “our” money is Luke’s, my money remains mine, and I shall spend it as I see fit.
I am judicious with it, however, and, having purchased the items for Luke, a few necessities (including chocolate), and a toy for Johnnie’s Christmas, I was satisfied that I had finished my shopping. But I had not counted on the establishment of Mrs. Bertha Ermerins, Millinery, and was drawn to it as a bee to honey.
I went inside, believing I would purchase only ribbons to restore my poor old hat. But I spied a most wonderful silk bonnet, the inside white, the outer portion just the deep purple of lilacs near our porch at Fort Madison. It reminded me of Mother, for lilacs were her favorite. Mrs. Ermerins insisted I should put it on, then exclaimed that the color turned my eyes lavender and the cut of the brim covered up the gray streak in my hair. As if that was not enough to turn my head, she added that many had tried on the bonnet but that none looked better in it. So being Eve’s vain daughter, I fell victim to her flattery. When I emerged from the shop, I had the bonnet in hand, and Mrs. Ermerins had my five-dollar coin in hers. Each of us feels she got the better of the other. I do not think the price too dear for something that makes my eyes lavender.
Poor Baby was nearly spent from his busy morning, so we made just one more stop, and that at Mr. W. G. Chamberlain, Photographist, where we sat for tintypes. The likenesses will go to Luke at Christmas, to my family, and to Carrie. All will find Johnnie a handsome boy, and I hope they kindly overlook the old woman who holds him.
At last, we two weary sojourners returned to our hotel, where Johnnie was greeted with much pleasure, as he has been everywhere in the city. Mrs. Chubb says if we had been in Denver only five years previous, I should have made my “strike” by charging homesick men just to hold him. She holds Johnnie for free, and she enjoys it greatly because she misses her grandchildren at home. As Mrs. Chubb reluctantly returned Johnnie, she inquired whether she might tend him for the afternoon, freeing me to go about on my own. I have not left Johnnie with another before, but as Baby likes her and is a good judge of character (having selected Luke and Self as parents), I agreed.
Mrs. Chubb will come to me as soon as she has had her dinner, and I intend to call on Moses at the Mozart concert hall. I am sure he will be pleased to have a visitor in such an attractive lilac bonnet.
Johnnie was asleep when Mrs. Chubb arrived at our room, which disappointed her, for she had hoped to take him to the reception room, where she would be the center of attention. Instead, she settled onto a chair and picked up the copy of Tom Earley’s Drum-Taps, which I had brought with me.
I left at once, for I did not want to be away from Boykins any longer than necessary. I was some distance from the West Lindell when I remembered that I had not inquired of the clerk the location of the concert hall. So stopping a woman, I asked the way to the Mozart. She looked at me sharply, and at first, I thought she would not reply, but she answered curtly, “Up Larimer. Next block,” and hurried on her way.
Following her instructions, I reached a small white building with the name Mozart displayed across it and plunged inside. To my dismay, I found I had entered one of Denver’s infamous gambling halls, and I stopped, intending to back out. But others pushed in from behind, and I was propelled into its very midst and deposited next to a large wheel with a sign reading “Chuck a Luck.” I heard the click of dice and a loud “Damn it to hell,” then grunts and sighs from a table where
sat four men with cards in their hands. One aimed a stream of tobacco juice in my direction, missed the spittoon behind me, and landed the foul wad on my skirt instead.
“Sir!” cried I.
He glanced up but did not offer an apology. “Move yourself, lady,” he said as he returned to his cards.
I made ready to follow his suggestion when I heard my name called. Coming toward me was the familiar form of Moses Earley.
“Fancy you in this place.” He laughed as if I had just played a huge joke on him.
“I did not know the Mozart was a gambling hall,” I replied, grasping his hand. In fact, it is what is known here as a “gambling hell.”
“Thought it was a concert hall, did you? Well, I guess you have gotten into the ‘wrong pew.’ “ Moses laughed loudly at this sally, and I joined in so he would not think he had hit the nail on its head. “Well, the Mozart isn’t so bad. It sure beats the Connor place in Mingo.” He looked about. “Say, where’s Luke? You didn’t come here alone, did you? Aw, you’re a brave woman.”
I explained the nature of Luke’s conference and said that as I had an afternoon free of Johnnie’s care, I had decided to pay him a call.
“With all there is to do in Denver, your husband’s attending an agriculture meeting? Don’t that beat all! Well, it suits Luke. Him and Tom never could stop talking about how wide to make the furrows and what crop soaked up the littlest water. It wasn’t the life for me. I guess you know I’m not for farming. Hell, the only good thing I got out of Mingo was Jessie.”
A man entered the room, shoving me aside. Moses did not reprimand him, but said, “We are impeding progress,” and led me to a vacant table in a corner, where he removed a cigar butt from a chair, and I sat down. A waiter approached, but Moses brushed him aside. “I do not think you’d care for anything that is served in this place,” he said with a laugh. “Now, what is the news from home?”
I told him of Sallie’s unsuccessful rescue.
“We heard about it here. Denver’s full of soldiers from the war, with plenty of fight left in them. What they wouldn’t give to kill Indians, and I guess I wouldn’t mind it myself. Old Ben Bondurant’s right: The only good Indian has a bullet through his back. I guess you feel that way, too, Sallie being your friend and all.”
I did not care to dwell on Sallie, so I changed the subject. “Tom is well, but he’s lonely, I think. I have suggested that he call on Miss Figg.”
“He’d have to be plenty lonely to court her. Tell him to come to Denver, and Jessie will introduce him to more pretty girls than he ever saw in his life.”
“Where is Jessie?”
“O . . .” Moses looked down at his hands, which I observed were as smooth and finely manicured as Persia’s. He caught my glance and flexed the fingers with pride. “You don’t see a farmer with hands like these. In my profession, I need them.” To my quizzical look, he explained, “I’m a dealer. Cards, that is. O, it’s not what I came here to do, but I’ve got the knack for it, and it’s better than panning a mountain stream in winter. Jessie’s got her heart set on going to Buckskin Joe—that’s south of here—come spring, though why, I don’t know, with all the money she takes in. I guess we will, if she wants to.”
“Then Jessie has found work,” I said.
Moses cleared his throat. “Yeah. She’s kind of what you might call a doctor. For women, that is. You know how good she was when Johnnie was born. And with Mrs. Amidon, too. Jessie said she thought Mrs. Amidon would have killed herself if she hadn’t helped out.”
I thought over Moses’s words, not quite understanding. Then, of a sudden, I asked, “Does she work on Holladay Street? Upper Holladay Street?”
Moses looked up quickly. “How do you know about Holladay?”
I have learnt that when one is uncertain of a thing, the best way to elicit information is to keep quiet, which advice I sometimes follow.
“You know about it then, do you?” he said when I did not reply. “Well, there are plenty of the most desperate sort of women working the line who need her, and some others, too, who live in society. Those arrive after dark when they think nobody sees them. Jessie says it’s funny how they draw up their skirts when she passes on the street, but they’re not too proud to go looking for her at night. She makes them pay for it. I guess she’s made as much money as any woman in Denver.”
Moses reached into the pocket of his vest and extracted a square of pasteboard, handing it to me. To my surprise, because I did not know such women presented calling cards, it read:
MRS. J. CONNOR-EARLEY
Denver City
(Holladay at H Street)
•
Ladies Suffering from Chronic Diseases
Will Find my Commonsense Treatment
Greatly to Their Advantage
Will Attend Calls to Neighboring Towns
While I find such an occupation unsavory, I cannot condemn it. I well remember Charlotte Hoover, who was cruelly deceived at Fort Madison and left alone to deal with the consequences of her folly. When her body was pulled from the river, I told Carrie I wished there was a way to destroy the unwanted child without sacrificing the mother. At home, an abortionist, for that is what Jessie is, would be subject to tar pots and feathers, but here she is a valuable member of the community. I do not know, is that so wrong?
“Where is Holladay Street?” I asked.
“O, I wouldn’t go there if I was you. Not that it’s all bawdy houses, you understand. Just part of it. Still, it’s no place for a lady.”
“But I would like to pay my respects to Jessie.”
“I’ll convey them.” Moses cleared his throat. “Ah, she’d be grateful if you didn’t tell it about in Mingo, the line of work she’s in. Just say I’m taking care of her. Jessie’s never worked the line, but folks in Mingo have in mind that she’s no good. I wouldn’t want to stir up talk.” Moses does not care so much about what “folks” think as he does about Tom’s opinion, and I believe he does not want his brother to know the truth.
“I keep my own counsel, particularly when it comes to friends, such as you and Mrs. Earley.”
Of course, I did not know if Jessie was Mrs. Earley, but I hoped to elicit information to pass along in Mingo if it was favorable. Moses gave me an uneasy smile, but he did not remark on his marital state. Instead, he said, “That’s a real pretty bonnet.”
We spoke a few minutes more about old times, until Moses said he must be at work, and I took my leave, promising to tell Tom I had found his brother well and happy, giving as few details as possible.
March 8, 1867. Denver City.
“Why, there is a lady of refinement,” said Mrs. Chubb, who likes to watch people pass by the window of the West Lindell. “You can tell she’s not from Denver.”
I turned and studied the woman. “Indeed, she is not. She is my friend from Mingo!”
Jessie Connor certainly was a lady of style in her elegant black silk suit, trimmed in jet. She wore black kid gloves, the like of which I had not seen since leaving the Mississippi, and a hat that was every bit as smart as my new lilac bonnet. No one would recognize her now as the strumpet Missus once called Red Legs, if, in fact, she ever had been.
Jessie drew many admiring looks as she walked into the hotel, but her glance was for me alone, and the instant she saw me, Jessie rushed over and kissed my cheek. From the corner of my eye, I saw that Mrs. Chubb was impressed with my acquaintance with such a magnificent creature.
After Jessie and I had embraced, I spied a beaming Moses behind her, also dressed in spotless black, with boots polished to a shine. A narrow scarf was tied rakishly about his neck, in the manner of the gamblers at the Mozart. He saluted me warmly, and I presented the two of them to Mrs. Chubb, saying, “You must make the acquaintance of my dear friends, Mr. and Mrs. Earley.”
Jessie gave not the slightest indication that the introduction might be in error, and she held out her hand graciously.
“We’ve come to collect you for dinner,�
�� Moses told me, turning to Mrs. Chubb. “It won’t be as good as the Christmas dinner Mrs. Spenser spread for me and my brother. She has a way with the Christmas cake all right.”
I blushed at his praise, but Moses did not notice, as he had spotted Johnnie. He threw him up into the air, causing Boykins to laugh happily. “If this one hadn’t been in such a hurry, me and Jessie would have done the honors with him.” Johnnie put his little arms around Moses’s neck, to the pleasure of both. “How would you like to take your dinner in a fancy restaurant?” he asked.
“O, we cannot,” I said. “I showed Johnnie the sights. Now he suffers from a cold, and I fear he may come down with the croup, as well. Besides, he is ready for a nap.”
Mrs. Chubb spoke up. “I’ll see to the nap. You run along with your friends.”
I protested that I could not impose on her twice, but she insisted, saying that when Johnnie awakened, she would bring him downstairs, where she would enjoy the attention of all. I knew she was sincere, so I accepted her kind offer, hurrying to my room with Jessie to change into my navy silk.
As I removed my traveling costume, Jessie observed, “You’re not pregnant.”
“I lost the baby at Christmas.”
“A purpose?”
Of course, such a question was in the worst taste, but I think Jessie intended it as a professional query, so I did not take offense. “Things were never right. I had been sick from the onset. It was God’s will.”
Jessie snorted. “God’s will. La! Myself, I don’t trust the man. That’s why I’m in the line of work I am. Moses says he acquainted you with it. I don’t mind you knowing. Others would judge me for it, but not you. You was nicer to me than anybody in Mingo.”
“There were many in Mingo who liked you. Emmie Lou is one. I believe you saved her life,” I said. “But you are right to say that I do not judge. I shall always hold you in the highest regard for your attention to me.” Then I added impulsively, “Jessie, I like you better than anyone I’ve met in Colorado.”
The Diary of Mattie Spenser Page 16
