The Diary of Mattie Spenser

by Sandra Dallas

  Jessie bit her lip, then wiped a bit of dust from her eye. “Best we hurry. Moses don’t like to be kept waiting.”

  “Moses is a good man,” I said, tying the ribbons of my new bonnet to form a bow just under my ear.

  “The best I ever had,” she replied.

  My friends carried me off to the People’s Restaurant on Blake Street, which, despite the rawness of the town, was as dazzling as anything to be found in Fort Madison—or down the Mississippi in Hannibal, for that matter. It was tastefully appointed with walnut tables and chairs and crystal lights hanging from the ceiling. All were transported across the prairie from St. Joseph by oxcart. The most remarkable thing about the establishment, however, is that it is owned by an industrious Negro. Nobody cares in the least that he is a Son of Africa as long as he does his job, and he does it with great success, for the place was crowded and the prices high. Of course, he is very light-skinned.

  We were presented with many dining choices, Jessie and I both selecting trout, which I had not tasted before. It is the fish that swims in the mountain rivers, and it was daintily prepared. Moses chose badger, whose dark red meat is solid and sweet. When we had finished, I was invited to select a dessert from among many splendid offerings, which included wine jelly and queen’s pudding, both great favorites of mine. But there was just one choice for me, and that was chocolate cake, which I have not tasted since last autumn (and that, having been made by Persia, was not very tasty).

  As the waiter set the plate in front of me, Jessie looked up and frowned as someone came into view across the room. I did not turn, for she quickly brought her attention back to me, but I wondered if she had seen one of her “patients.” I put the glance out of my mind, however, for I was enjoying the opportunity to relive old times with friends, as well as to taste the excellent cake.

  We had a most agreeable time, and I did not want it to end, but at last, the bill was presented, and Moses paid it. When we rose to leave, Jessie stepped beside me, talking earnestly and taking my arm, blocking my view of the restaurant. But she did not block Moses’s view, and he said, “Why, look, there’s Luke.” Moses raised his arm in gesture, whilst Jessie shook her head violently, saying, “La! Do be still.” But it was too late. I turned, to see my husband seated at a small table, his hand on the linen cloth, holding the hand of his companion. That companion was Persia.

  To my humiliation, Persia looked up and recognized me. She said something to Luke, who glanced our way, his face as unexpressive as if he were studying the prairie grass, but he quickly let go of Persia’s hand.

  I did not wait for him to come to us to offer explanation, but said, “It is very close in here. Let us go out at once.” With a friend on each side of me, I was led into the street, where I took the fresh air in great gulps. Neither companion mentioned the scene inside, but stood quietly with me, waiting for Luke to emerge from the restaurant and give an accounting.

  After many minutes, I realized he was not coming. So did Moses, who, without a word, presented his arm to me, and we three walked on, not stopping or talking until we came to an ugly building that I took to be a stable.

  “That is the Elephant Corral,” said Moses.

  “It is famous. Mr. Horace Greeley wrote about it in the New York Tribune,” added Jessie.

  I was grateful for their efforts to turn my mind from Luke’s strange behavior, and I replied in a light manner. “When I write home, I shall say I have not ‘seen the elephant,’ as Mr. Bondurant puts it, but I have been to his home.” We all laughed a little too loudly, for the sally was not that humorous. But it allowed us to pursue a new subject, and for that, we were all relieved.

  When we returned to the West Lindell, Mrs. Chubb and Johnnie were not to be found in the reception room. I said my goodbye to Moses, but Jessie insisted on accompanying me to the room, as she had not yet held Johnnie. At the door, she stopped me. “You tell Mrs. Amidon, I can send her something if she needs it. And you. You remember if you want a friend, you have one in Jessie. Write me if you need me.” She extended another of her cards. “I brung something else for you, too. It’s laudanum, for the nerves. I hope you never feel the need of it, but you might.” Jessie thrust a bottle of the opium into my hand. Then without going into the room to hold Boykins, she took her leave.

  Johnnie was asleep, and Mrs. Chubb explained sheepishly that she had awakened him when we left, so that she might take him to the lobby, where all could enjoy his antics. “He’ll sleep awhile longer, as he was tired,” she said, then looked closely at me. “You look tuckered out yourself, Mrs. Spenser. Your friends have exhausted you.”

  I nodded, for I was very tired indeed, though not because of Jessie and Moses.

  “What you need is a bath. The hotel will bring one up for a dime. I’ll go right down and order it.”

  For the past two years, I had bathed in nothing larger than a washtub, and suddenly a proper bath was what I wanted most in the world. I did not care if the cost had been four bits. I thanked Mrs. Chubb, and within a few minutes, a man arrived at my door with a hip tub, buckets of hot water, and a piece of soap that was as soft as flower petals.

  At his leaving, I stripped off my dress, the sight of which brought to mind Persia in her robin’s egg blue costume, decorated with old gold lace that made her hair shimmer like a heap of bright coins. I compared her habiliments with my own plain costume and remembered that Persia had called it the ugliest wedding dress she had ever seen. I threw it upon the floor and sat down in the tub, scrubbing every inch of myself, as if I could rub out the sight of Luke and Persia. When my anger was washed away, I let the tears come and splash into the water. I leaned my head against the back of the tub and sobbed in self-pity. Then I cried for Mother, who could no longer comfort me, for the little boy I had lost at Christmas, and for Sallie. At last, the hot water and exhaustion brought blissful sleep. When I awoke, the water was cold, and Baby was cooing to me.

  It is now very late, past nine o’clock, I should judge, and still no sign of Luke. I cannot explain his faithlessness. Is he still with Persia? Does he regret Baby and me? Does he not care that his perfidy has brought me such pain? I sit in a chair by the window, looking out at the mountain range, which is now just a black shape against the dark sky. The sunset was very angry, with bold clashes of orange and violet that tore into the sky as well as my heart, where it joined the anguish already present there. The noise from the street is harsh and hurts my head. I do not like Denver City anymore. I am sorry I came here.

  March 10, 1867. Prairie Home.

  We were away but a week, but O, what a great deal of work awaited us upon our return. Luke spends many hours in the field, not only making up for lost time but putting into practice the ideas he learnt in Denver. An agriculturist at one of the meetings proposed that farmers on the dry plains plow their fields in half circles instead of straight rows, claiming such a method keeps the wind from blowing away seed and soil and will attract moisture. The proposal drew much ridicule, but Luke was taken with it, as was Tom when he heard about it. So now the two farmers are plowing the field between our homesteads in undulating furrows. I think a crow flying overhead must think the land worked by a blind plowman with a mule full of rum.

  There were many tasks awaiting me, too, for the wind had cracked our precious pane of glass and dust covered every inch of the house. A family of mice had chewed their way into my flour barrel and made themselves at home. Had I been prudent, I would have sifted out their “calling cards,” but I threw out the contents, and now I am hard-pressed to fill up my hungry husband until he can go to Mingo and replace the spoilt flour.

  This morning, I bathed Baby, using the precious soft soap from my bath at the West Lindell. I had carefully wrapped it in paper and packed it in my trunk, and now it gives Baby relief from the harsh lye soap that we use here. When Johnnie was in bed for his nap, I poured his bathwater upon the earthen floor to settle the dust, then settled Self in a corner whilst it dried. Waiting there were pen and
journal. It is time to put down the particulars of our last night in Denver, which I have been unable to do until this time. My mind has been greatly confused.

  Luke did not return for many hours that evening, and many times did I pace the floor between Johnnie’s cradle and the window. I went to bed but could not sleep, feeling as if a thousand pins were pricking my body. So I was awake when there was the scrape of key in lock, and I saw the familiar shape enter the room.

  Luke began undressing in the dark so as not to awaken me, but I said, “I am not asleep. You may light the lamp.”

  “I see well enough without it,” he replied, but I struck the match, for I did not want to discuss the fateful day in the dark.

  I gave Luke time to speak, but he was not inclined to do so, and after waiting in vain, I said, “Have you an explanation?”

  Luke turned to me, his eyebrows raised, as if he did not understand the question, but I knew he did, and I said nothing, which made him uncomfortable. At last, he asked, “Do you mean Persia?”

  I dipped my chin just a little to show that I did, then waited again, but Luke said nothing. “I think I am owed your explanation as to why you were dining with Persia, ignoring your own wife,” I said when I could stand the silence no longer.

  “And why were you dining with Moses and Jessie without my permission?” There was anger in his voice, although I do not know if it was caused by my demanding an accounting of him or my failure to seek his approval before going out.

  “Jessie and Moses are not only old friends; they took charge of Johnnie and me when you abandoned us to visit Persia in Fort Madison,” I said hotly.

  It was the first time I had blamed Luke for being away during my confinement, and his chest rose as he took a deep breath and replied, “That is not true.”

  “That you abandoned us, or that your true reason for going to Fort Madison was to see Persia?” I did not like to play the shrew, but I felt I must have an accounting.

  “You yourself agreed I should go alone.”

  “Only at your insistence. But what of the rest? Persia told me last fall that you loved her above me, that you proposed to me only after she refused you.”

  Luke looked away and did not respond, his silence being answer enough.

  “If that is true, what am I to think when I find you with her?”

  Luke finished removing his clothes, blew out the lamp, and walked to the window to look out upon the street. He was stark, but my eyes were on him nonetheless, forsaking modesty, because I was very angry.

  He stood there for a moment, then replied without turning back to me. “I did not know Persia was in Denver. I was as surprised as you when I saw her on the street, and as she said she was leaving in the afternoon for Central City to meet Mr. Talmadge, I invited her to dine. There was not time to ask you to join us, and I did not think you would want to see Persia, anyway, for she said you were unkind to her last fall.”

  “She slanders me. It was she who was unkind to me.”

  Luke turned from the window, then came to me and sat down on the bed. “Persia is unhappily married. If you had seen her up close, you could not have missed the bruise on her face where her husband hit her.” Luke made a fist with his right hand and slammed it into his left palm, as though it were Mr. Talmadge he struck. “I can’t abide a man who hits a woman. If I’d seen him, he’d be plenty sorry for it.” Luke stretched his arms over his head. “That’s all I have to say,” he added, as if to put an end to the subject.

  I would not let the matter lie, however. “Persia says you still love her.” My voice was so small that I had to clear my throat before asking, “Do you?”

  Luke stared at me, and I was glad he had blown out the light, because my eyes, already red and swollen from crying, had filled again with tears in anticipation of his answer. Without putting on his nightshirt, Luke drew aside the blanket and slipped in beside me. “Do I?” he asked. “Do you think I would do this if I loved another?”

  As he reached for me, I turned away, wanting a clearer answer. But Luke was not to be refused. He fitted himself to my back, as if we were bowls stacked in the cupboard, then put his arms around me, my breasts in his hands, kneading them just as I knead bread. He had not done that before, and it caused such a strange longing in me that, despite my reluctance to permit the marital act, I turned at last to my Darling Boy.

  When he was finished, Luke quickly went to sleep. But I did not sleep for a long time, as I pondered his question, which was the answer to my own. I am not satisfied, but I will not bring it up again, for Persia is a closed subject between us.

  Chapter 6

  June 15, 1867. Prairie Home.

  Poor health and the management of our little household have kept me from writing in this book for many weeks. I accompanied Luke to Mingo in April, and the glare of sun on snow weakened my eyes. Luke suggested I put charcoal smudges under them before leaving home, as he does, but vain girl that I am, I refused. I bathe my eyes frequently in a decoction made from herbs that Mr. Bondurant brought me, and I have written away for colored glasses. I shall look very strange indeed in sunbonnet and blue spectacles.

  There is another cause for my sorry health. We shall welcome a little stranger at Christmas. Luke has not voiced his desire for boy or girl, but I have my heart set on one of my own sex. I am glad for this third pregnancy, as is Luke, I believe. In my case, it is because it puts the unpleasantness with Persia behind us. I have concluded that I was indeed second choice to Persia, but it no longer matters, for I am now the first and forever choice. Persia is a reminder to Luke of carefree days when he was a Fort Madison swell, unencumbered with care of Prairie Home and family.

  I, too, remember aplenty those happy days when Carrie and I sat beneath the arbor in our yard with our sewing, giggling over girlish concerns. Were there ever more joyous times? But I am a woman now, and I find pleasure in family and duty. Life was not meant to be without pain, and easy times do not build character. (O, do I not sound pompous? I am too young for such heavy thoughts.)

  I take much comfort from Johnnie. The little fellow celebrated his first birthday in May with a chocolate cake (the chocolate purchased in Denver, even though it was very dear) and a farmer doll bearing the likeness of his father, made by his proud mama. Papa gave him a set of blocks, which the birthday boy lined up in a row before tasting them, thereby proving he has characteristics of both parents—Papa’s logical mind and Mama’s sweet tooth.

  Many here talk of statehood for Colorado in the near future, although we have been turned down twice by our government in Washington, D.C. The designation would help attract homesteaders to this sparsely settled place. We hold our own, although the new residents barely make up for those who leave.

  A Russian family moved into the Garfield place. The man told his name, which none could pronounce, excepting Mr. Bondurant, who declared it is “Frog Legs Frank,” and by that name, he is now known amongst us. His family is made up of a wife and brown-faced girls, who go about without their sunbonnets. We have not asked if the family is aware of the Garfield homestead’s terrible history, for none can speak their strange tongue. That barrier does not deter these good people from adding their voices to ours in praising God at Sabbath services, turning that meeting into a Tower of Babel. Some believe the Russians are Hebrew, but it matters not to me, for one is glad for any neighbors here. I should like to take a cake to welcome them, for they are very poor, and Tom, who has visited, says they live principally on a kind of pancake called hardtack or on prairie chickens they hunt, using dried peas as shot. But I cannot yet bring myself to visit that place of so much sadness.

  Fayette Garfield feels as I do, for he has scarce set foot on his old homestead since that terrible day. He is seen in Mingo and at other places where unruly men gather to drink. Mr. Garfield has a way with horses and is in demand as a cowboy, but it is said his mind, which was already affected by the horrors of the war, was broken by Sallie’s death. Mr. Garfield must be restrained whenev
er he sees a savage, but I believe Indians are not solely at fault for his mental state. One must blame Mr. Garfield’s origin in the South, where climate often produces a dissolute temperament. Luke encountered him on his last trip to town, but he merely nodded, as he did not care to join Mr. Garfield and the drunken company he keeps.

  Another couple has taken up a homestead north of the Osterwald place. “Woodbury Wheeler and wife,” said he, introducing both at Sabbath service. She quickly spoke up and offered her name as Nannie. Though Southern, they are not highborn, being Texians, and he has but one arm, having lost the other in battle at Shiloh. When he was told that Luke was in the same battle but on the Yankee side, Mr. Wheeler thought it a huge joke, and neither man bears the other any ill will for the wounds each sustained there. Colorado has made that war seem further away to all.

  Because of the number of Confederate men killed in the war, many women of the southland are destined to be old maids. Even so, a good wife must be hard to find, because Mr. Wheeler placed an advertisement in a newspaper for one. Mrs. Wheeler responded, sending a picture of herself and sister, and he, thinking her the prettier one, discovered on his wedding day that his bride was “ugly as sin,” as he put it to Mr. Bondurant and me, treating the whole affair as if it were a joke.

  Mrs. Wheeler, overhearing her husband, was not the least put off, but said, “Perhaps you are right, Mr. Wheeler, but I am the agreeable one.” Indeed, they seem as happy as any couple I ever saw. I should think that here a man would choose a cheerful woman and a hard worker for his life’s companion over a tearing belle. But from observation, I conclude that men do not always know what is best for them.

  We have a second lady homesteader, a Miss Eliza Hested, who filed on the claim adjacent to Miss Figg. The two women will build a house that straddles the line between their claims, allowing each to sleep on her own land and, thereby, meeting the requirements of the law. Both are brave to come to this place without a member of the male sex to protect them. I told Tom he is quite the lucky man, for he lives in the only part of Colorado Territory where the available women outnumber the single men.