The Diary of Mattie Spenser

by Sandra Dallas

  Yesterday, Husband invited Johnnie and Self to go for a ride in the wagon. We drove many miles across unfamiliar prairie to the southwest, and I thought perhaps Luke had found a new tree and we were going for a visit. Then we crested a hill and saw before us a village of tiny dugouts, each inhabited by a burrowing animal as fat as a woodchuck, called a “prairie dog.” The pups wiggled their stubby tails and barked when they saw us, not in warning, but in welcome, for they are friendly creatures. But when we came close, they turned tail and scurried into their holes.

  Johnnie was enchanted with the little village, clapping his hands and saying, “Doggie, doggie,” for he is such a clever fellow and already speaks words. Luke carried him near to the burrows, keeping a sharp watch for rattlesnakes, as they like to sun themselves in the village before supping on prairie dog. In only a minute, the curious animals reappeared, and knowing we intended them no harm, they went about their business.

  It was a fine outing. Luke is the best of fathers, taking more than a little interest in our boy. He said the other day he wished he had thought to name him Shiloh John Spenser so that he might be called Shiloh, which is Hebrew for “place of peace.” I am glad he did not.

  Tom brought us the slip of a yellow rosebush that he acquired from an emigrant who stopped at his homestead. She had several of them, wrapped in burlap and watered daily. So Tom traded her a crock of butter for it. As the butter was from our cow, the rose properly belonged to us, Tom said. Someday, I shall have a hedge of yellow roses along the house. I carefully water the slip, and this morning I was rewarded with a sliver of green.

  My birthday has passed, and I received from Husband a fine wooden dough bowl, which he himself had made, and from Carrie an autograph album, which is much appreciated. I shall ask all my friends and neighbors to sign it—those who can write, that is.

  July 8, 1867. Prairie Home.

  Moses, who is yet in Denver, sends Tom copies of the Rocky Mountain News, and when finished, Tom delivers them to us. Little matter that the events contained therein occurred many weeks prior. As we are not up on the news, it is as fresh as today’s milk. Tom’s visits are doubly welcome now, for himself and for the intelligence he brings of the world outside.

  This morning, whilst Luke was in the fields, Tom arrived in a hurry, and after much clearing of the throat, he asked if I knew what was about.

  “O no!” cried I with alarm at his troubled countenance, thinking he had read something in the paper. “Not the President? Has President Johnson been shot, just like Mr. Lincoln?

  Tom quickly shook his head.

  “What is it, then?”

  “Mrs. Amidon. She has not mentioned it to you?”

  Having been ill, I had not seen Emmie Lou since my return from Denver, and the Amidons have been absent from Sabbath services. “Is she all right?”

  Tom looked uncomfortable and muttered, “I shouldn’t have brought it up, as it is private. I thought because you are the only one in whom she confides, she might have discussed it with you. I only asked because, well, Amidon is acting strangely, and I need advice on how to deal with him.”

  “Luke says he is quick to anger but does not know why. You must tell me the particulars, Tom.” After a moment’s contemplation, I asked, “Is Emmie Lou in danger? O, I hope her husband is not a brute like Mr. Osterwald.”

  “No, not that.”

  Tom did not continue. So I prepared tea, taking out the dear-bought English stuff, another Denver purchase. Even on the hottest day, good tea creates a cozy atmosphere in which to share confidences. I built up the fire in the stove and set the kettle upon it, then turned back to Tom. “I won’t breathe a word of it, even to Luke, if you think I shouldn’t,” I said, hoping to encourage him. “Perhaps there is something I can do for Emmie Lou.”

  “No,” Tom replied. “The only one who can help is Amidon, but continence is not his way.”

  Though I had begged for the details, I was shocked that Tom would be so frank. “Sir!”

  He knew at once he had misspoken and asked me to forgive him.

  I told him the fault was mine for pressing him. “I know that Emmie Lou is greatly burdened in that way. You may as well tell me the whole of it.”

  “It was something I overheard and none of my business,” he said after I turned my back to him to pour the tea.

  “Quite.”

  “I went to the Amidons’ to ask for the loan of a sod plow. When I got there, the house was dark, and I believed everyone was asleep. So instead of knocking, I listened, intending to leave if I heard no sound.”

  I handed Tom his tea, but he set it aside and gnawed on his fist for a moment.

  “Then I heard a loud banging from above, the bedroom door, I suppose it was. Amidon demanded to be let in. He said he was her husband and had his rights, and he ordered her to turn the key in the latch. Emmie Lou cried that if she did, she would be dead in a year, and she begged him to stay away from her. I think he would have broken down the door if he wasn’t so proud of the mill-work in the house. He seems to hold its welfare in higher esteem than his wife’s. Perhaps Emmie Lou let him in, because the pounding stopped, and I slipped away as quietly as I’d come.”

  I sipped my tea. “Poor Emmie Lou. A woman has few rights in marriage.”

  “A man ought to learn to control himself.”

  At that moment, Johnnie, who had been playing so quietly on the floor that I had all but forgotten him, lifted his baby arms to Tom to be picked up, and so our conversation was over.

  I suppose I should be shocked at the changes in me. Such a conversation with a man not my husband would not have been permitted two short years ago, but in Colorado Territory, we put conventions aside.

  I resolve to call on Emmie Lou soon. It is unlikely she will confide in me, but she may find the presence of another woman to be some consolation. This place and Mr. Amidon have worn her out.

  July 24, 1867. Prairie Home.

  My eyes are better, but my condition makes me a poor companion this summer. Though I try to keep a cheerful countenance, Luke knows I suffer with this babe. My understanding of the situation is that each pregnancy gets easier, but my experience is quite the opposite. With Johnnie, I would not have known I was enceinte had it not been for my misshape. I pray I can carry the child to term, for I want it very much. This little stranger, now more than three months along, is not only a creation of Husband and Wife, a precious bond between the two, but a playmate for Johnnie and a completion of our little family.

  Knowing I need rest, Luke hitched up the team and went to Mingo today with a dear little passenger—Johnnie. Save for the few hours in Denver, Baby has never been out of my sight since his birth. I miss his happy presence but know he is with a companion who will care for him as lovingly as I do.

  Being alone was such a strange sensation that I did not know what to do with myself. So I pretended I was a bride, and as in my first days in this place when Luke was away, I prepared a bath in the tub outside, singing gaily, not thinking until I was finished that Tom might have chosen this time to call and was scared away by my sounds of “Nelly Was a Lady.” That being the case, I am glad he was frightened off, because had he come closer and found me a la Eve, he would have concluded that Mattie was not a lady.

  We see little of Mr. Bondurant lately. Luke says he is not cut out to work in the fields, but only to make whiskey, which he sells less or more to the Indians.

  August 1, 1867. Prairie Home.

  The last mail at Mingo brings the wonderful news that Carrie, too, awaits the arrival of a baby at Christmastide. I feel closer to her than ever. Was there ever a time we did not do things in tandem?

  Johnnie returned from his trip to town with Papa in fine spirits. He is such a manly little fellow, and Luke pronounced him the best traveler he has ever seen, to the dismay of Johnnie’s mother, who had assumed the honor was hers. But she will not be jealous of her Boykins and so humbly accepts the assignment of the second place.

  Augu
st 13, 1867. Prairie Home.

  So pleased was Luke with Johnnie’s companionship that he has once again taken him to Mingo. I had thought to make it a threesome, but the little stranger who is to be in just four months had other ideas, and so we two stayed at home. The minute Luke was out of sight, I crept back into bed and stayed there the better part of the day, not rising until half after nine, when I felt my domestic duties could no longer be put off.

  Johnnie is the best boy that ever was. He is steady on his feet and loves to chatter. I try to develop his mind by pointing to objects and naming them so that he will learn such words as house and chair and horse. Luke caught me at it and naughtily indicated the cow, saying, “Elephant.” Husband does not often joke, and I burst into laughter. A gold-seeker can now “see the elephant” at our Prairie Home and not trouble himself with the mountains. I point to Carrie’s picture and say very clearly, “Pretty lady,” and Johnnie attempts to repeat it. What a smart boy I have!

  Yesterday, after Luke inquired whether I was raising a girl, I cut Boykins’s hair for the first time, an event that occasioned tears on Mother’s part. But Johnnie enjoyed the attention, and he laughed as he threw the severed curls into the wind, all but one, which his mother saves in this little book.

  Our crops do somewhat better this summer. Luke believes our success depends on development of a drought-resistant grain. He talks of returning to Fort Madison after harvest to consult with agrarians, though how a farmer on the Mississippi can advise on dryland crops, I do not know. On one point, I am clear: If he goes, Johnnie and I shall accompany him.

  My favorite hour is sunset, which begins with prairie and sky both blue. The setting sun turns the grasses golden. The sky is swirled and streaked with pink and scarlet and lilac; then slowly it turns to claret, and both land and sky fade into blackness. I am finding much to like about this place.

  August 15, 1867. Prairie Home.

  Tom came in his wagon to fetch the three of us for a call on Mr. Bondurant, but Luke had gone to the lady homesteaders, who had asked his advice on harvesting. I protested that I could not go with Tom, saying it was not proper for a married woman to accompany a man on a social call without her husband’s permission. Of course, such manners are not much observed here, but after our conversation about the Amidons, I felt the need to distance myself a little from Tom.

  Nothing would do but that I go, however. Tom gave me no reason, but from his insistent manner, I knew it was a matter of some importance. Besides, at the idea of riding in a wagon, Johnnie clapped his hand and chatted away, and I could not deny him the pleasure.

  “He’s so smart, you’d almost believe he’s saying real words,” Tom observed.

  “He is.”

  “You are the finest mother I ever observed.”

  I blushed furiously, because even Luke has not paid me such a compliment, although I hope he believes it to be so. Sometimes, Tom is too familiar.

  “Is Mr. Bondurant ill?” I inquired.

  “I think he has never been so healthy.” Tom blushed himself, for what reason I did not know.

  When we arrived at Mr. Bondurant’s place, everything seemed in perfect order, including its owner, who rushed to meet us.

  “Get you down,” he called, muttering something over his shoulder, which I could not make out. He picked up Johnnie, throwing him into the air, which made Boykins squeal. Then he helped me from the wagon, all but hugging me, so glad was he for our visit.

  “You have told her, then?” Mr. Bondurant asked, hopping from one foot to the other in his excitement.

  Tom shook his head. “I thought I’d let you do the honors.”

  The smile left Mr. Bejoy’s face. “So you’re ignorant of it?”

  As I looked at him in confusion, someone came from the soddy and stood quietly in the doorway. I stared in such astonishment that Mr. Bondurant turned and beckoned to the figure, who was dressed in the tanned skins of animals.

  “This be Mrs. Bondurant. We get along fine. You bet. Her people named her Bird Woman, but I call her Kitty.” There was as much pride in his voice as if she had been a white woman.

  Kitty was pretty in the way of the Indian maiden, very young and shy, her eyes on the ground like any blushing bride. Still, that ground was knocked up from under me, and I blurted out, “An Indian?”

  “Arapaho,” Mr. Bondurant said.

  “Arapaho women are known for their chaste ways,” Tom added.

  I did not know what to reply, and I am ashamed to record here that upon meeting Kitty, I could not even extend my hand to her, for fear of that hand being stained with Christian blood. Mr. Bondurant himself had told me on our trip to Colorado that the only good Indian was a dead one, and I could not understand how he could choose a savage for his bride.

  His disappointment in me was clear, as was Tom’s, and we stood awkwardly, excepting for Johnnie, who sat down in the dirt and played with sticks he found there. Mr. Bondurant muttered something to Kitty, who went into the soddy, returning with tin cups of cool water. Before I could stop her, she handed Johnnie a scrap of buckskin.

  “It’s a doll. My Arapaho ain’t so good, and she thinks Johnnie’s a girl. She made it herself. Handiest woman I ever saw,” Mr. Bondurant said. “There’s nothing like an Indian squaw for work. Come inside and see for yourself. Kitty can’t do nothing but that she does it decent.”

  Mr. Bondurant entered the house, but Tom held me back to whisper, “I know you’re angry with me, but I couldn’t tell you, for fear you wouldn’t come. Ben’s counting on you. O, he doesn’t expect you to throw a housewarming, but he hopes if you treat Kitty nice, the others will, too. If Kitty’s not welcome, then the two of them might go off and live with the Arapaho.”

  “I thought he didn’t like savages. He’s told me as much.”

  “Love does strange things to a fellow. Besides, he’s learned to know them better and says Indians are people, just like white folks. He thought you’d agree.”

  “He has no right to presume.” I entered the dark room, which was lighted only by the doorway, letting my eyes get used to the dimness. My nose needed no time to adjust, and I was aware that the Bondurant place no longer smelled like the home of an old batch, for now it was filled with the sweet odor of prairie grasses. When I could make out the room, I observed it was as tidy as any home I ever saw, with blankets neatly folded and household items in place. The walls were hung with beading, which Mr. Bondurant informed me was the work of Kitty’s hands. “She sews ‘most as good as I read,” he said with a wink.

  I could not help but laugh at his jest, which eased the tension a little.

  “Sit,” Mr. Bondurant ordered, and we did so. “How come us to marry?” He asked the question I had not, then answered it himself. “I’m not attached to batching.” He nodded at Kitty, who went without, returning with plates heaped with stew. “I already teached her to use plates, but she won’t touch the cookstove. She’ll like it come winter.”

  I was not hungry, and I did not care to eat something prepared by an Indian, for I did not know what it contained, but Tom and Mr. Bondurant “dug in,” as the saying is here, and at last, I sampled the fare, finding it was as good as any stew I ever prepared, and certainly better than any I had cooked over a campfire.

  “Very tasty,” I told Kitty, who watched us eat but did not join in. She frowned at my words, not understanding them. So I repeated slowly and loudly. “Very tasty.”

  “She ain’t deaf,” Mr. Bondurant said, then turned to Kitty and said something in her language.

  She lowered her eyes and replied to Mr. Bondurant.

  “She says, ‘It’s no botherment.’ ”

  “Won’t she join us?” I asked.

  “Indian women don’t eat with their men, just stand around taking care of them and eat what’s left over, if there be leavings,” Mr. Bondurant explained.

  “Well, I think that is a very poor policy indeed,” I said hotly. “Women need sustenance as much as their men. It is my obse
rvation that the Indian woman needs more, because she does most of the work.” I looked at Mr. Bondurant to defy me, but I found he and Tom were laughing instead.

  “You’re not so glad she’s here, but you take her part,” Mr. Bondurant said, and as he was right, I joined the laughter.

  After we had eaten, Kitty sat down with us, and in a few minutes, she was playing with Johnnie with such warmth that this mother’s heart softened toward her.

  I do not approve of the amalgamation of the races, but Mr. Bondurant’s consort shall not be scorned by me. I will not condemn the union of one who has proven himself so faithful a friend. To convey that conclusion, I extended a hand to Kitty as I left—to her confusion, for she is not familiar with our custom of shaking hands.

  When Luke returned that evening, I told him of Mr. Bondurant’s companion, and he said he had heard as much that day. The Smiths are outraged, and others are not fond of having a savage in our midst, but as for Luke, he thinks it is not his affair. “Out here, we make allowances,” said he. His response surprised me a great deal, for he has very high standards, but upon reflection, I believe him to be right. I, too, make allowances for the ways of the country.

  August 22, 1867. Prairie Home.

  The gossips are at work, and our neighbors are much vexed with the new Mrs. Bondurant, declaring Mr. Bondurant guilty of mongrelization. At our last meeting, the Sabbath group spoke more about Kitty than the Savior. Some of the displeasure comes because none knows how this union came about. Mr. Bondurant has enlightened no one on the particulars of his matrimonial partner. There is some thought that he bought her with a barrel of whiskey. Mr. Bondurant was heard to say that “if nobody don’t like my way of going about this interesting business, I don’t care. It’s none of their funeral.”