Virginia's Vocation

by Zina Abbott

  Next, he picked up the issue of the investigative journal, Heartland Monthly, he had received two weeks earlier. Not for the first time, he read the cover article written by V. A. Wellington. The topic centered on Missouri’s divided loyalties between those with abolitionist leanings and those strongly favoring slavery, and the author’s concerns regarding the likely outcome of this situation within the state. His jaw clenched tighter the farther down into the article he read. Although the author had organized his arguments well, the language, adequate enough, revealed a dearth of sophistication. The vocabulary used, more than elementary in nature, exposed the lack of a higher degree of education. He had almost finished his reading when, in a fit of disgust, he tossed the journal in the direction of his bed.

  The reasoning incomprehensible to him, the publisher of the Heartland Monthly had accepted this article. Yet, he had rejected his far superior piece on the future of abolitionism in America—a topic he knew, once his article was published, would solidify his reputation and assist a great deal in his efforts toward being named a full professor at Oberlin College which was rumored to have strong abolitionist leanings?

  Avery watched the newsprint pages flutter as it slid across the coverlet toward the foot of the bed. The edges rolled toward the center fold and threated to crease as the journal dropped to the floor. He clenched his fist to keep his hand from trembling. Although the more educated class of citizens held a high regard for the Heartland Monthly, and the journal enjoyed a good reputation, at the moment, Avery did not share that view. Not recognizing his feelings of envy for what they were, he condemned the article as being one of the worst forms of publication: yellow journalism.

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  Chapter 3

  ~o0o~

  Salina, Kansas Territory –October, 1858

  F illed with gratitude that Jefferson had bought her the leather gloves, in her head Virginia counted out one-two-three as she prepared to push on the handles of the wheelbarrow loaded with the deadfall she had found along the edges of the Smokey Hill River up the bank. The riverbank, although not high, was steep. This load of firewood she planned to take to the Palmer’s house located in the middle of the three properties. All of the parcels were bordered to the west by the Smokey Hill River that ran north and south. The men chose the land opposite where the Saline River joined it, and before it connected with the Solomon River then bent west to join the Republican River to become the Kansas River. So many rivers, but at least the three properties were close to plenty of water.

  In addition, her brothers and Mr. Palmer hoped the river would prove a barrier to any hostile tribes that ventured east with the intention of attacking white settlers. Virginia preferred to not think about that possibility. She found the idea of living under that sort of threat unacceptable.

  She recalled how Edward Palmer and her brother, Sidney, had spent one evening using leftover pieces of the cut lumber from building the houses to fashion the wheelbarrow. They attached two of the smaller boards used to frame the houses to the sides for handles. Using his knife, Mr. Palmer whittled the ends to fashion handles she could comfortably grip. They cut a small but sturdy section of an oak branch to be an axle to hold the solid wood wheel rimmed with a metal band they bought in Kansas City. The wheelbarrow carried many small items but had proven especially helpful for carrying fuel. Virginia much preferred pushing the barrow, although getting a full load of wood up the steep riverbanks sometimes proved a challenge.

  The edge of her bright yellow sunbonnet brim had folded over and obscured her view. Lined on the underneath with dark blue cotton designed to kill the glare, it protected her face from the sun. However, at times she felt like she wore horse blinders. Puffing her breath in an effort to blow the edge back in place, Virginia smiled to herself as she recalled how the plan for the wheelbarrow came about. Necessity might be the mother of invention, but sometimes building a valid case by presenting undisputable arguments—a technique she used when she wrote her investigative reports—could bring about a solution to a problem.

  While still back in Boonville, her brothers, who had already made the trip out to their chosen home sites the year before, had teased her unmercifully about conditions on the plains once the family decided she should accompany the men. They warned her wood supplies were limited and mostly confined to the river banks. They had been told to gather dried buffalo dung to burn for heat and cooking. When they explained to her how pioneer women crossing the plains commonly used their apron skirts as containers to hold the gathered buffalo chips, as they were called, until they returned to their wagons where they were then placed in a net below the wagon bed, she rebelled. First of all, she did not wish to pick up excrement, no matter how dried and odor-free. Second, excrement on her hands and clothing would inevitably make its way into their food, a possibility she considered unsanitary and revolting. Third, even though dried, it would be impossible to keep her clothing clean if she handled excrement on a recurring basis. Fourth, even if she wore her knit gloves, they were not solid and the dust from the disgusting stuff would end up embedding itself on the skin of her hands, another thought she considered unacceptable. About the time she got to five, Jefferson had assured her they would come up with a means to limit contact of her person and clothing with buffalo chips.

  In spite of Jefferson insisting the wood from the more plentiful cottonwood trees did not burn as well as the more scarce oak, as the early afternoon heat beat down on her, Virginia had chosen to seek whatever loose pieces of wood she could find in the shade of the trees lining the riverbank. She preferred that to returning to the open fields the three men had each laid out on their respective properties for plowing and planting a small crop of winter wheat before they returned to Boonville.

  Almost since they had arrived, she had been tasked with using any free time between cooking, laundry, and clean-up chores to removing all the buffalo chips from those fields they set aside to plough first. Said dried animal excrement would be used for fuel either while they were there for the next two months or for when the families came in the spring. Out of fear of depleting the trees on their properties, Jefferson and Edward, particularly, expressed their reluctance to cut wood for fuel until they needed to, and they hoped it would not be until after they arrived with the families, finished the houses, plowed all the fields they did not intend to reserve as pastureland, and had settled in. Until then, Virginia served as the vanguard of the Atwell women who would be tasked with gathering buffalo chips from every square foot of the three properties.

  Virginia’s thoughts veered to her observation made a few weeks into gathering buffalo chips. All she found were dried. She might find some soggy piles after a rainstorm had passed through, and some had started to break down to return to the soil to fertilize it. However, none were freshly dropped by the animals that ate the plentiful, thick grass. She guessed this was due to it having been several years since any buffalo had wandered onto this section of ground. She wondered if the increasing presence of white men between the Missouri River and Salina prevented them from migrating this far east.

  Virginia knew the huge animals still could be found on the plains to the west of Salina. On one of their trips to the town, Sidney and Edward had brought back a haunch of buffalo meat supplied to the local store by a hunter. She had cooked up part of it as a roast and more the following day in a stew. The rest she soaked in salt brine for two days, and then she dried it over a low fire of buffalo chips. She had enjoyed the meat as a break from the smoked ham and salt pork from home she usually used for flavoring their soups and stews. However, she looked forward to returning home to Boonville, where she could once again eat beef and chicken.

  Virginia stopped at the edge of the tree line and, placing one hand on the small of her back, stretched to work out the kinks. Her head turned from side to side so that through the funnel created by her sunbonnet brim she viewed the land—Atwell land—before her. She admitted
to herself that the almost flat land covered mostly in grasses, now the wildflowers of spring had died out, did possess its own beauty. Trees lined the river, and low hills dotted with bare rock to the south broke up the skyline. With few trees to cut down and hardly any stones to clear, she recognized the land was well-suited to growing crops. Seasonal thunderstorms moving through watered the ground without the need for manmade irrigation.

  However, Salina and the surrounding area was not Boonville. She doubted it would ever feel like home to her. It did not even have a post office. From what she understood, the nearest one was in Manhattan, over seventy miles to the east. Traveling from Boonville to the post office in Columbia, a town where she was not known, twenty-six miles away was challenging enough.

  If she shared her honest opinion with anyone, it was she considered Boonville too rural and backwards for her tastes, even though she had lived there for as long as she could remember. She longed to move to a larger city, one with libraries, colleges, opera houses, and more cultural opportunities. However, she felt reluctant to share her desires with her family. She feared they would consider her reaching above her station and insulting the lifestyle they all knew and accepted as their lot in life.

  With each passing week, Virginia grew more anxious about not being home in Boonville where, on their trips to Columbia made usually every two to three months, she stopped by the post office in that city to check for mail addressed to Mr. V. A. Wellington, her pen name. She had in her possession a letter she wrote herself granting her permission to collect letters and parcels for Mr. Wellington. With her letter in hand each time she visited Columbia, she dropped off her latest manuscript, or picked up either a rejected manuscript, or, as increasingly was the case, a letter of acceptance along with a draft.

  Only, her brothers’ plans to move the entire family to Salina threatened everything she had been working towards for the past five years. She did not have enough savings set aside to take the next step in her life. She feared the move to Salina would sabotage all she had worked for. Until then, she dared not say a thing. Being over twenty-one, she was of age, so Jefferson could no longer seize any money she earned as his due by virtue of him being her legal guardian. Still, as long as she lived under her brother’s roof, she felt it best to say nothing. True, Jefferson treated her well. However, even if Jefferson did not insist she throw her earnings into the family pot for him to manage, both he and Sidney would expect her to use any money she made as a dowry to attract a husband who would then spend it to purchase land and livestock he would manage. That definitely was not part of her plans for her future.

  A commotion caused by multiple horses traveling drew her attention to the south. There, the three men worked on Jefferson’s house—the house they intended to be her home, too. Her eyes widened at the sight of hundreds of Indians on horseback approaching Jefferson’s property. They did not appear to be preparing for an attack. In fact, children ran alongside the animals that pulled mounds piled on poles attached to some of the horses. In spite of their peaceable appearance, fear overcame Virginia. Praying the intruders had not seen her, she grabbed the handles of the wheelbarrow and pulled it back into the cover of the trees. Should she run away and try to hide? Should she stay where she was and hope they did not come looking for her? If they captured her, would they kill her? Might they torture her first before taking her life and her scalp? Would they force her to go with them to be a slave?

  What about the men? At least they had their weapons with them, but they were no match for the hundreds of people riding towards the river.

  Paralyzed with indecision and absolute terror, Virginia ran to the trunk of one of the larger cottonwoods thick enough to hide her. Her forearms almost touching each other in front of her, she pressed fisted hands against the tree as she strived through her fear to decide what to do. She managed to loosen the strings of the sunbonnet, which now threatened to choke her until it sagged against her back. Heaving breaths so heavy she feared she might dislodge her lungs from her chest cavity, she squeezed her eyes shut and leaned her forehead against the bark. She hoped the tree shielded her from being detected. She prayed the Indians traveling towards the river she had seen had merely been a mirage. Could it have been a figment of her imagination, like those she experienced many nights? Ever since she entered the frontier land, she struggled each evening to sink into a restful sleep. Often, conjured up visions of horrors, and the dangers on the frontier, disturbed her dreams. These night terrors that plagued her were prompted by the stories told to them by Boonville neighbors once they learned the family’s plans to move to Kansas Territory.

  The fingers of Virginia’s hand fumbled at her right side until they felt the reassuring presence of her possibles bag that constantly rested against her hip during the day. She kept it filled with anything she thought she might need for survival. Every time she removed her leather gloves, she slapped or rubbed the visible filth from them and tucked them inside. At night, she used the bag as a pillow. She wrapped it each night inside her cloak she had brought in expectation that the weather would turn cold before they started back towards Boonville. Her plan was, if she needed to escape at night, she could easily grab her possibles bag and the cloak which, even on the warmest days, could ward off biting insects. Now, as she stood near the river with the bag, she realized with an intensity that discouraged her beyond measure that if she tried to escape an Indian attack, she could not get far, even with the survival supplies stuffed in the bag resting against her hip.

  Unable to bear the thought of not knowing what befell her family, Virginia inched her face towards the edge of the tree trunk to peek at the unfolding scene. The procession of Indians on horseback continued towards the river, veering north to a place where she knew the trees to be sparse. Although their objective appeared to be several hundred feet south of her position, she felt a renewed terror that they approached.

  Occasionally, some of the Indians turned momentarily to study her family, perhaps to gauge the likelihood they would take offensive action against them. Virginia could not imagine her family doing so, especially confronted with superior numbers. However, she did not doubt they would do everything they could to defend themselves, and, as far as possible her—an impossible task.

  Next, a lone brave on horseback galloped towards the three white men who stood to the side of Jefferson’s house, each with a rifle in their hands or resting on the crook of an elbow. He slowed as he approached. Still too far away for her to make out his features, the only characteristics of note she detected were that he wore a blue cotton shirt with full sleeves and a belt cinching tight the garment at his waist. He appeared to have the sides of his head shaved. One hand held the reins attached to his horse’s halter, the other he held in the air with his open palm facing the men. Whether he did so to show he carried no weapons or as a sign of greeting, she did not know.

  Virginia squeezed her eyes shut and once again cowered behind the tree. She did not know what these barbarian people would do. She only knew she wanted nothing to do with them.

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  Chapter 4

  ~o0o~

  Salina, Kansas Territory – October, 1858

  C harlie Gray Cloud fought down his annoyance at the sight of the white Americans working so close to the section of river where his people intended to cross over as they traveled west. He turned to look behind him at his wife, Meadowlark, who carried their daughter in a cradle board on her back. Although some might say her face showed no expression, he felt heartened by the confidence in him she communicated through her gaze. Since he spent half of his childhood being raised by his white American father, his father-in-law, Spotted Horse, knew he spoke English well. With a glance and nod of the old man’s head, Charlie obeyed the unspoken command to approach the white men.

  The Kansa wanted no trouble from the whites as they traveled to and from their buffalo hunting grounds for the winter hunt. The tribe had a
lready suffered enough that year. In spite of them having received their yearly allotment earlier in the month, it had gone to pay the debts owed to white merchants. They needed the food and hides they would find on the plains as they hunted the bison. He needed to persuade this trio of men to allow them to pass without restraint. If they did not, there were plenty of braves to deal with them. It was the soldiers from Fort Riley, which would come after the tribe on a punitive campaign once they learned of any hostilities his people engaged in, he and the tribal elders did not wish to risk. Plus, any stray bullets from an exchange of gunfire might hit their women or children. He needed to negotiate a safe passage.

  Because the chiefs of the three Kansa camps traveling together knew he not only spoke English, but he scouted for his father’s freight train in the spring and summer, he had been chosen to be an advance scout until the tribe arrived beyond where the whites built their houses of wood or sod and ploughed up fields of grass, making the land unfit to support the buffalo herds. Was that not part of the reason, along with his distinctive gray eyes, he had been given his Kansa warrior’s name which translated to Gray-cloud-speaks-thunder? The Kansa expected him to use his ability to read and write in English to speak with words of thunder when the white men came with their demands and treaties, intending to further diminish the ability of the tribe to live and thrive.

  From what he learned when he scouted this area the day before, he already knew the men had a woman with them. The chiefs, Hard Chief, particularly, in whose camp Charlie lived when he came home from his job scouting for his father’s freight train, were displeased upon hearing his report that, since the last time the tribe had crossed the river, a small group of white Americans now worked the land with the intent of settling on it permanently. Therefore, the leaders determined he would approach the men to assure there would be no trouble from them.