The Diary of Mattie Spenser Page 6

  The food in Mingo made me long for the cold biscuits of our Overland Trail days. Luke refused to subject me to those inside the saloon (though I admit I was longing to satisfy my curiosity). So I waited on the street whilst he inquired after the mail. Two drunken men were bold enough to look me over, but I ignored them. Then one thrust his face next to mine and said, “I’ll take you, Katy.” I screamed, and Luke bolted out the door, and he would have thrashed the pair except that they ran as fast as they could, falling in the dirt of the street, which made me laugh. Luke announced loudly that anyone who assaulted his wife would have him to deal with. I said he should not trouble himself with such rowdies. In my heart of hearts, however, I was much pleased at this public display from my gallant defender.

  I saw only one woman in Mingo, a slattern in a saffron-colored dress. She came from the barroom to see the cause of the commotion. When I mentioned her to Mrs. Smith (whose first name, I have discovered, is Elode, reason enough to call her Missus), she replied that the woman had worked in a bagnio in one of the gold camps, then in a Denver resort, before marrying Burt Connor, who keeps the Mingo saloon. She was called “Red Legs” because of her fondness for red stockings, and she is as devoid of morals as they come. I informed Mrs. Smith I assumed as much, but I had not, and when I discovered she was a “soiled dove” (the term Missus used), I wished I’d studied her better. Missus says Mrs. Connor is Southern, like many of the unnatural women in this country. The war left them little of value apart from their “virtue,” and, of course, the Southern woman’s morals are different from ours, for it is well known they embrace the free-love movement.

  We will have to make the best of the Smiths, who aren’t so bad, now we know them better. She admitted when we returned their visit, calling on her at her “poppety,” as she calls it, that she was in a state when she met me. “With that well Mr. Spenser dug before you come, we figured you for some high-toned lady who’d think us common,” she told me. I laughed that anybody would be afraid to meet me and assured her I’d never think her common. Well, what else would you call a woman who licks her plate when she is finished eating?

  Missus lived on her place six months before she ever saw a tree, and when she did, she was so overcome at the sight that she hugged it. “Now, when you get to feeling like that—and mark my words, you will if you ain’t already—you come to me, and we’ll have us a good cry together. Men don’t understand what ’tis to give up the only home you ever knew and move to hell-in-Colorado.”

  I hope Luke brings back letters from home. In Carrie’s last (which is in my trunk, since there is not room in this book to store all), she said her secret was no more, since Will has told all. She might as well be as big as a pumpkin. There was sad news in the last mail from Mother, as she, too, is enceinte, and has been in poor health. She knew of her situation before I left but did not want to be the cause of worry, so revealed nothing. She puts the best face on it, saying a little one will be a companion in her old age, but O, I worry, because she is not strong. She has such difficulty in the last months, and I will not be there to help her. Mother says God always knows what He is doing. Well, I may blaspheme, but God is a man. If He had been a woman, He would have made other plans for childbearing.

  Darling Mother was married at fifteen, a mother before a year was out, and she has had the care of little ones ever since. I do not intend to follow her example, although I am not exactly sure how I shall prevent it. Onanism is wicked, and surely must be messy, and I would never dare suggest it to Luke. I think he would not care for “French cobwebs,” even if they were available at the all-purpose store in Mingo. Besides, with Luke’s demands, I would have to order a gross of them, as they cannot be washed out. I may employ a small sponge soaked in a little vinegar, or a piece of fine wool, inserted into the womb, a method I have been told is so cunning that, excepting for the small ribbon attached to the sponge to remove it, even a husband doesn’t know of it. Of course, I would prefer the only true method—continence.

  I have spent too much time at my writing, and now I must commence the birthday shirt, ere Luke returns and finds me at work, thus spoiling the surprise.

  August 23, 1865. Prairie Home.

  My Darling Boy has given me a wonderful surprise.

  “Would it suit you to go to church services?” he asked on Saturday before last, giving me a sly smile.

  As there is no church nearby, and the sanctity of the Sabbath is disregarded by most in this region, I thought he was joking, and I replied in the same manner, “Which one should we select?”

  “The one at home, in your own parlor,” Husband replied. He had let it be known last time he was in town that we would be pleased to host Sabbath services for any and all who were interested. He thought to surprise me, then worried, and rightly so, that I might prefer to be forewarned.

  “You should have told me. There is no time to prepare,” I said.

  “The other women will bring dinner. So you won’t be made to cook, but I expect you’ll have to sweep the floor and dust,” he said, which made us both laugh, as we are still living in the portal. Still, one cannot expect a husband to understand the many things that must be attended to before guests call.

  I flew at the task, and our little “cottage” looked most festive when our fellow communicants arrived. I placed a white cloth on the table, and upon it, a bouquet of wildflowers, which tickled Missus, who called them weeds.

  Nineteen were in attendance. Besides ourselves and the Smiths (who smoked and chewed throughout the day, except when eating), there were Hiram and Lucinda Osterwald, poorly dressed in faded bettermost, accompanied by the remaining member of what was once their brood of nine. The son’s name is Brownie, and he is a giant of a young man, with queer ways. The mother is sickly, and at first, I thought she suffered from female debility and was in need of a tonic. Then I was told that she had taken a fall, and I observed her badly bruised arms and face. When I inquired of the husband if I could be of assistance, he asked roughly that I not take notice, since ’twould embarrass her. Since I am clumsy myself, who am I to say a thing about it?

  Emily Amidon, who came with husband, Elbert, and two babes, is nearest my age, and my favorite. It is obvious another little Amidon is due soon, but that state scarcely keeps a woman out of society in this country. She did not put on airs and tell me her name was Mrs. Amidon, but stated at the outset that it was Emily Louise and I was to call her Emmie Lou, because she hoped we would be friends. Emmie Lou, who is tiny, with ringlets the color of corn silk, is a cultured person, having studied the piano and other instruments for ten years in Philadelphia before she was persuaded to marry Mr. Amidon and journey west.

  Sallie and Fayette Garfield are about our age, but Luke says they are Southern, so he warned me not to become too friendly. I think they are not as bad as other Rebels, for Missus said they were Whigs before the war and opposed withdrawal from the Union, although, when called, Mr. Garfield gladly served the Southern cause. They have a son, a pettish boy, who remained close by the parents. Also here was a fat and jolly German couple named Himmel, well advanced in years, who put me in mind of potato bugs. They barely speak our language but seemed refined, and grateful for a chance at Christian worship.

  Our little group of pilgrims was complete with the addition of three single homesteaders. Two are brothers, Thompson and Moses Earley, from Jo Daviess County, Illinois, handsome men. They are the ones who lived in the wagon one winter. Both are tall, with hair that is almost black, and dark eyes, gray, I think. Moses has a mustache like a dandy, but Tom is clean-shaven. They, too, advised us to call them by their first names, to avoid confusion.

  Moses says he is fed up with this country and wants to go to the gold fields to make his fortune. Thompson is satisfied to stay at farming, having already seen enough adventure; he fought for the Union under the glorious boy general, George Armstrong Custer. When I inquired if he believed General Custer would be President one day, as some at home have talked about, Tom
replied that General Custer was brave, but too impetuous for his taste. Tom prefers another heroic general by the name of Grant, a man who is a personal favorite of mine, too. I think I shall enjoy discussing politics with the brothers Earley, if Luke approves, of course.

  The other homesteader is between thirty and forty, I would judge, and as big as a barn, but that is not the curious thing. She is a woman! Her name is Miss Anna Figg, and Missus says she is stronger than either of the Earley boys. This member of the fairer sex, who weighs fifteen stone and rides a horse sidesaddle, sitting it as stiff as a churn dash, does her own plowing and built her house by herself. She plans to put in a well, with but little help. Her hard work has not unsexed her. Missus says her house is as neat as a pin, and she brought with her a “prairie cake.” I don’t like it so much as chocolate, but it was a light and dainty cake, nonetheless.

  We opened our service with prayer. Then all enjoyed the singing of hymns, and I noticed many a wet eye when “The Old Rugged Cross” was finished. There were calls for old favorites, even “Silent Night.” Moses, who accompanied us on the dulcimer, suggested “The Battle Hymn of the Republic,” with a glance at the Rebel couple, who stiffened. Luke replied that the selection, being a patriotic song, was not a proper Sabbath choice, thus avoiding a renewed conflict between North and South, which, due to sheer numbers, the North would have won again. Moses then proposed “Turkey in the Straw.” Luke gave him a stern look, although I thought ’twas funny and nearly laughed out loud. Moses is a cheerful boy, and I think I like him better than his brother, who is a very sober fellow.

  As Luke was the host and he is a general favorite, he was asked to sermonize. When he began, the women took out knitting and mending (one brought a pair of drawers that needed repair), for hands are not idle here. I picked up my piecing and was glad for it, as Luke spoke for a very long time, not pausing until the little Garfield boy said, “The preach sure comes out of that man.” Even Luke had to smile at the remark, and he quickly ended his sermon.

  Luke wore the shirt I made for his birthday. Mrs. Garfield, who is a true Southern woman in her flirtatiousness (though I don’t mind, because jealousy is not in my nature), told him it was as handsome a shirt as she ever saw, and Luke puffed out his chest like a rooster, not stopping to think he was preening for the wife of a Rebel. I learned this about my husband that day: He is vain. But I suppose any man as handsome as Luke has the right to be.

  Whilst the men talked after service, the women set the dinner upon the table, each putting out the tin plates she had brought with her, for no one here is expected to have enough dishes to serve guests. Utensils, too, being rare, were provided by the guests. Miss Figg says she has only two forks, and she prizes them so highly that she has given them names—Samuel and Little Pete.

  Mrs. Himmel ran her hand over my good Delft plate, as if it were made of solid gold, and Mrs. Osterwald whispered she could not even touch the pillow or cigar silks that Carrie made me, for fear of snagging its delicate threads with her rough hands. I was much pleased with their kind remarks over my possessions, and I had to chide myself for pridefulness on the Sabbath. I have been repaid for it with the discovery that one of my silver spoons is missing. I cannot believe any of the Sabbath worshipers would have taken it, so I conclude it fell upon the ground and will be recovered one day.

  We all joined in and ate until there was nothing left. The chocolate cake that was my contribution disappeared first and was pronounced tasty by all who partook. The Earley brothers said they had not tasted chocolate since moving to Colorado Territory. All agreed it was a splendid event and that we would set aside one Sunday of each month to worship together.

  September 22, 1865. Prairie Home.

  Luke and I were in the field when of a sudden we saw a rider making haste toward us. Luke recognized him as Mr. Osterwald, who, as soon as he was in shouting distance, yelled, “Indians! Indians are coming!” Luke and I ran for the portal, where our weapons are kept, intending to make our stand there. But when he had calmed himself, Mr. Osterwald told us Indians were not following behind him but had been seen, painted for war, east of here. He said we were to get out of the country at once and go to Mingo, where all the folks were gathering.

  A farmer on his way to Mingo had spied the Red Men whilst taking his rest. He hid in a ditch until the brutes were gone, then made his way to a homestead. Whose farm it was, he did not know, only that the Indians had been there ahead of him and burnt the place, leaving only a dead man, whose face had been hacked away.

  While Luke and Mr. Osterwald hitched the Osterwald horse and the buttermilk to the wagon, then saddled Traveler, I snatched up quilts and food, and in a moment we were ready. Luke helped me into the wagon, then turned and told Mr. Osterwald to get in beside me, for he would warn the neighbors farther south. Mr. Osterwald protested, but Luke said firmly, “You left your own people to come to us. Now it is my turn. Mrs. Spenser is good with a shotgun, and she’s not one to lose her head.” My heart swelled up with pride at this bravest and noblest of husbands, and I thought it was little wonder that with gallant soldiers like Luke Spenser, we licked the Old South.

  I swore to match Luke’s steadfastness, and though I desired him to carry me to Mingo himself, I would not complain. Instead, I entreated Mr. Osterwald to climb onto the seat next to me, wished Husband Godspeed, and raised my hand in a cheery good-bye. To my surprise, Luke swung Traveler next to the wagon seat and kissed me full on the mouth—with Mr. Osterwald looking on! Then my brave boy took off like thunder across the prairie.

  All was chaos in Mingo. The stage station is built of bricks made from earth and straw mixed together, then baked in the sun, making them as hard as stone. It is called adobe, and is thick enough to stop arrows and even bullets, and it was a far better place to make a stand than our portal. There was a terrible din within—women shouting, children crying, and knitting needles clacking, for nothing is so important that it keeps women’s hands from work. The rooms were very crowded, and I thought we might be in greater danger of suffocation than from the arrows of savages.

  Most of our fellow worshipers were there. Mr. Osterwald joined Mr. Amidon, the Earley boys, and others (including Miss Figg), who were posted about the station as lookouts. I spied Mrs. Osterwald with her son, Brownie, who, I have learned, is simple. Mrs. Smith stood guard over the cookstove with the “stumpet,” Mrs. Connor. I guess Missus is not so particular about the company she keeps when there is food to be had, even if it was squirrel stew, which was never a favorite of mine.

  Despite the excitement, I paid close attention to Mrs. Conner, so’s I could describe her to Carrie. I confess, she seemed no different from any other woman working a hot cookstove. She is plump and pretty, with bright red cheeks, due to the heat, I think, and not to rouge. Slatterns do not wear satin and lace here, not whilst they cook squirrel stew anyway, and I could not detect even a flash of the red stockings that were her trademark. She wore a dirty apron, pinned to a slimsy dress, whose sleeves were rolled up above the elbows. Her hair was untidy, falling about her face. I was much disappointed.

  I found Emmie Lou, who looked pale and frightened. “Don’t worry,” said I. “There are enough men out there to whip a thousand of the savages.”

  “It’s not the Indians that scare me. I think I’m going to be sick.” To my look of confusion, she explained, “My time has come. All this excitement has brought it on.”

  “Lordy, here?” asked I, stupidly. “Now?”

  “The baby says when. I don’t.”

  “Then you have a right smart baby, for there are a dozen women here to help,” I told her, and we both laughed. Then her face twisted in pain, and not knowing what else to do, I went to Mrs. Smith for help.

  “Hell’s bells, why did she pick a time like this?” asked Missus, who was indeed a cross old soul that day. She held a plate of food close to her face and ate from it, using her spoon like a pitchfork. I wanted to repeat what Emmie Lou had said about the baby picking its own
time, but I did not think Missus would understand our little repartee.

  “You take over the cooking, Elode. You never was much help with birthing,” said Mrs. Connor in a way that made me think they were better acquainted than Missus wanted it known. Then Mrs. Connor said to me, “It’s all right. I’ve done this before. Lots of times. We’ll put her to bed in the back room. You know anything about birthing?”

  “I’ve helped with the sheep, Mrs. Connor,” I said.

  Missus gave a laugh of scorn, but Mrs. Connor replied, “Not much different. Sheep have a harder time of it. And you don’t need to put on the airs with me. It ain’t Mrs. Connor. It’s just plain old Jessie.”

  Jessie was right. It wasn’t much different from sheep, except that when it’s over, the ewe and kid are turned out to pasture to rest. A woman must make up for lost time.

  The baby is small and squally but appears to be in good health. She is a another girl. They are all girls. Emmie Lou said she had her heart set on a boy this time and had not picked out a name for a girl. I suggested Carrie.

  Since this was the first time a baby had been born in his station, Mr. Connor thought the men should celebrate. He took out a jug and handed it around until Jessie grabbed it and held it high, saying, “Those ‘at done the work gets first call.” She took a swallow, then offered the jug to me, but I declined. At home, I would have let my disapproval of such an offer be known, but the manners of the country are different, and graciousness was called for.

  Jessie poured some liquor into a tin cup, which she took to Emmie Lou, who was not so particular as I. Perhaps I, too, will become intemperate ere my days in Colorado Territory are over. When she returned the jug to Mr. Connor, she warned the men to go easy because “we don’t need no drunken Indian fighters.”