by John Babb
By the time they got back to the Durham house with Henry’s body, it was well past sundown. The sheriff had arrived from Cassville and was questioning Elizabeth Rayl when they rode into the yard. When Elizabeth saw her daughter safe, she couldn’t stop crying. Minnie and Sue Durham were holding their husbands in a fast embrace, and B. F., Mattie, and the sheriff were bystanders. After a few minutes, Mattie turned Henry’s old horse aside and started back out the lane toward the road. B. F. saw her going, and caught up to her.
“Miss Lansdown—you need to stay with us.”
“No. You’ns got lots to share tonight. I’ll get outa the way.”
“Crocia meant what she said. I already know that about her. She means for you to stay for awhile.”
“Maybe I’ll see you’ns tomorrow.”
“No, ma’am. That’s not good enough.” He gave her as warm a smile as he could muster under the circumstances. “Besides, we’ve both got a dinner invitation.”
She smiled at his friendship, looked down at how bedraggled she was, and suddenly realized how long it had been since she had eaten a real meal. “I could use that right about now.”
They walked their horses back to the yard. B. F. motioned to Crocia, said a few words to her, and she took Mattie by the arm to go get cleaned up.
B. F. rode into town, followed Crocia’s instructions to find the smallest size in women’s clothing he had in the store, and returned to the house. Sue helped them get cleaned up, bandaged their hands, and had to cut away quite a bit of their hair that was singed. By the time dinner was ready, both Mattie and Crocia had gotten into clean dresses and, despite their bandages and salve on their faces, were looking almost like themselves.
Mattie looked at the dining table. “Missus Durham, I ain’t set at a table this nice since my Mam died. If my manners ain’t quite right, I’m apologizin’.”
Minnie and Elizabeth both came to her and hugged her. “The way we hear it, you saved our Crocia’s life today—without regard for yourself. You’re our hero, Mattie. You’re welcome at our table anytime.”
Although all of Crocia’s suggested improvements on the farmhouse had not been completed, with five days of carpentry accomplished, Mattie and Crocia were able to set up housekeeping with most of the required conveniences. They spent much of their days in assembling the household, getting a late garden planted, and cooking for one another. But even with their busy schedule, every evening was spent in talking through each other’s emotional turmoil regarding Henry and B. F.
Mattie was insistent that she intended, even in death, to spend the rest of her life being faithful to Henry. “After all, my mam and pap both passed on in their early forties. I figger I got fifteen, maybe twenty years left on this earth before I go to be with Henry. That’s hardly any time at all.
“I’m a whole lot more worried about what you intend to do with your life. We both know you love B. F. Are you really serious about giving him up? That Civil War made killers out of hundreds of thousands of good men. B. F.’s problem is that the war followed him to Keetsville, and you were here when it caught up with him. That don’t mean he’s a killer.”
“I know that’s true, but I can’t seem to stop thinking about how many people were put in danger because of him.”
Mattie smiled at her friend. “Have you ever done something that you still regret—no matter how much time has passed?”
Crocia sighed. “Almost every day for the last five years, I wish I had begged Robert and William—my brothers—not to enlist in the Confederate Army. I was young and foolish, and thought they looked high and noble in their uniforms. They hadn’t been gone from home a month before they were killed. I’ll regret not trying to stop them for the rest of my life.”
“Did your mother or father blame you for it?”
“Why, no. I don’t think so.”
“But you believe that you bear at least some of the burden for them gettin’ killed?”
“I guess so.”
“I feel that way about Henry, too.”
“Why? It wasn’t your fault. McCorkle is the one to be blamed.”
Mattie smiled to herself. “I guess that’s true. But I’ll also be blamin’ myself if you ride out of here in a week or so and don’t come back to B. F.”
“How is that your fault?”
“Because I know things you don’t know. Have you ever wondered what your future is going to be like?”
Crocia thought a minute. “I remember on the day you lost Henry that before anything even happened, you told him you could see him lying dead. Does that mean you can see the future?”
“My great-grandpappy could. Sometimes I can too.”
“Can you tell me what’s going to happen to me?”
“Give me your hand.”
With only the light from two coal oil lamps to illuminate the room, the two young women sat quietly for a full ten minutes. Finally, Mattie broke the silence. “I see two roads, and I cain’t tell you which is your future. One road is plain as can be. You and a man with coal black hair and a big family. Your life is a simple one in Keetsville. A husband who stays true. But I see that same husband wearing a pistol for the rest of his life—in order to protect what’s his.
“The other road seems to be in a haze or a mist. There’s you and your ma and pa. Then there’s a tall man with long, curly brown hair that takes you to a big city to live. I see two babies. There’s no gun on his hip. But he strays sometimes. You stay with him.
You have to decide for yourself which road leads to the kind of regret you can’t ever get away from, and which leads to a happy life. Then I can tell you which road truly belongs to you.”
Well after dark, B. F. stood on the front steps of the Windes Mercantile, facing the southwest sky. He quickly found Orion, clear as could be, just waiting on him. “Mama—we haven’t talked in a while. I’ve found the girl I want, but I made some mistakes that got a good man killed. And now I may lose her because she has her doubts about whether or not I’m a killer. I even wonder myself why almost everybody dear to me has died. Can you help me see the right way?”
He stood motionless for at least five minutes and then he could swear he heard his mother’s voice just as clear as day. . . . Fight for her.
Abruptly he turned on his heel, walked back in the store, put on his hat and jacket, and hurried across the street to saddle his horse. He was at the farmhouse in less than ten minutes, tapping on the front door.
Both women answered the knock, with Mattie holding a rifle at the ready. “Sorry, Mistuh Windes. Have to be careful these days.”
“That’s alright, Mattie. Crocia, could I speak to you for a minute?”
The burns on her face had almost completely healed, and he was reminded again of just how pretty she was when she stepped out on the front porch in her house dress with the coal oil lantern inside the house providing a bit of light. “Crocia, I can’t just let you go without a fight. I’d regret it for the rest of my days if I just stood by and watched you walk out of my life. Can you find a way to forgive me for putting everyone in danger, for getting you taken, and for poor Henry?”
“Mattie and I were just talking about regrets—particularly about regretting that you did nothing when you should have done something. I understand that very well.”
“Would you still have me after all that’s happened?”
She stood there for a full minute, staring into his eyes. Then she stepped closer and kissed him tenderly. “I believe I would.” She turned, knocked on the door, and Mattie answered it with a quizzical look. Crocia smiled at her friend. “I just decided which road I’m going to take.”
The next evening, they all convened at the Durham home. Before they sat down to the meal, Sue brought an envelope in the room. “B. F., this letter came today from Indiana for you. It was put in an envelope addressed to me.”
B. F. opened the letter and Crocia stepped behind him, reading over his shoulder:
Dear Ben
We
hear yer livin in mizzoori, an thet you got a fine bizness. We are happy thet life has been good to you. We had a long spell of bad luck. Life is hard here. Since we are yer blood kin, we hope you wil do the Crischun thing an share some of yer good fortun with yer famly.
Yer pa and ma
Crocia recalled many years later that B. F. had stood there with the letter in his hand, staring across the room at a blank wall for at least five minutes, remembering no telling what from those many years ago. He folded the letter and put it in the pocket of his jacket. Then he took no more than two steps, withdrew the letter, read it once more, squared his shoulders, tore the letter into pieces, and dropped them into the fireplace.
He looked at Crocia and pulled her to his side. “I do aim to share everything with my family . . . but my family is all right here.” He put his arm around Crocia and touched Mattie on the shoulder. “Let’s have some of that coffee!”
Acknowledgments
The main character of Orphan Hero—B. F. Windes—was my great-grandfather. Fantastic as it may seem in today’s culture, the framework of the story is absolutely true. He ran away from a cruel stepmother at the age of eight, traveled to the California gold fields via wagon train, earned his own way as a barber and physician assistant, and then was a blockade-runner during the Civil War. He left Indiana in 1849 with nothing but a handful of dimes, yet when he arrived in Missouri in 1865, he had enough money to purchase a mercantile store, four rather large farms, and establish himself as the unofficial local banker. Yet his fight was not over in southwestern Missouri, as the bushwhackers terrorized the area for some time after the surrender at Appomattox Court House.
The novel is based on stories told to me by my grandmother, my aunt, and my father; as well as entries from B. F. Windes’ personal journal, which he kept from 1849 until 1865. But as all historical novels must be, much of the specifics, all of the conversations, and many of the characters, are the author’s own invention.
I have taken great care to be as historically accurate as possible, and have personally visited almost all of the sites mentioned in this book. Additionally, I was aided by wonderful people at a number of locations.
The Arabia Steamboat Museum in Kansas City is privately owned and is an exceptional source of information on the workings of an 1850s era steamboat on the Missouri River, as well as the make-up of the cargo it would have carried in order to bring supplies to the jumping-off point for the westward bound wagon trains.
The National Frontier Trails Museum in Independence, Missouri was very helpful in educating me about the earliest days of the Oregon and Santa Fe Trails, before Independence was replaced by the new town of Westport, Missouri, some twenty miles further west. It was not long after Westport had opened for business that the discovery of gold in California occurred, with the result that a much greater number of travelers headed west—this time diverging from the Oregon Trail to form a third major thoroughfare—the California Trail.
The Kansas Museum of History in Topeka was absolutely full of nineteenth century memorabilia—particularly all of the accouterments necessary to travel west on a wagon train.
The Hastings Museum in Hastings, Nebraska helped me have a good understanding of the various Plains Indian tribes, which may have been encountered on the trek west.
The Kansas City Public Library’s Special Collections Room was the source of much of the information related to the old town of Westport, its citizens, street maps, and function as the jumping-off point in 1849.
The California Museum in Sacramento was a treasure trove of information related to the state’s gold rush towns and their unique inhabitants between 1849 and 1860.
The Gold Museum in Dahlonega, Georgia was devoted to the brief gold rush experienced in the mountains of northern Georgia in 1829.
The Barry County Museum in Cassville, Missouri is an exceptional gem that any small town in America would be proud to host. Its many resources helped me to understand that much of the area was truly a no-man’s land during and immediately after the Civil War. Additionally, they were the source of one of my characters, the Maid of the Mountain. Actually, B. F. Windes knew her, and personally utilized her skills as a seer, but only later in his life. Her insertion into my story in the 1860s was a fabrication on my part.
The Park Rangers at our National Military Parks are very well acquainted with all of the details related to the Civil War battles that took place at their current assignment. I visited National Military Parks in Pea Ridge, Arkansas, Shiloh, Tennessee, and Vicksburg, Mississippi, as well as the National Battlefield at Wilsons Creek, Missouri in order to have a better understanding of each of these locations mentioned in the novel.
I am forever grateful to JoAnn Collins from International Transactions, Inc., who was the first writer’s agent to read, and even edit, my novel. Peter Riva of the same organization agreed to represent me, and Yucca Publishing has graciously published my work.
Joanne DeMichele, PhD, was unbelievably patient with me, as well as a myriad of my mistakes, in her undertaking to proof and format my manuscript. I had no idea that retired English professors could be so kind and understanding!
My father, BF Babb, was B. F. Windes’ namesake. More than that, he undoubtedly inherited my great-grandfather’s strength of character and personal courage. He was my personal hero, and it was only through his guidance, many anecdotes, editorial help, and faith in me, that this book was written. Sadly, he died at the age of ninety-three in 2013 before the book could be published.
My wife, Victoria Babb, and I lived less than a mile from the convergence of the California, Oregon, and Santa Fe Trails in Kansas City at my last duty station. After hearing my father and I talk about the exploits of old B. F. Windes for many years, it was she who finally said, “Why don’t you write a book!” And I always listen to my wife.