Esther

by Jim Cox

  “That’s enough, Joan. Mr. Doyle doesn’t have to answer questions about his personal beliefs.”

  Silence gripped the table for a few seconds and then Esther stood to go after more coffee. When she had poured the coffee and returned to her chair, Doyle said sympathetically, “I was sorry to hear about your husband, Esther.”

  Both Esther and Joan quickly turned their heads toward Doyle with questioning eyes. “What are you referring to, Doyle? Are you speaking about our divorce?” Esther asked.

  “I know nothing about your divorce, Esther. I was speaking about the trouble he had with the law,” Doyle replied gently.

  “John has had legal trouble before—what is it now?” Esther asked.

  Doyle took a long drink before answering, “I thought you already knew, Esther. Otherwise, I wouldn’t have brought it up.” The women’s stares were penetrating, so Doyle opened up, “When I was in Cairo a few weeks back, I read in the local newspaper he had been caught cheating at cards at a local saloon. He was arrested and sentenced to seven years of hard labor at the state’s penitentiary in Alton, Illinois.”

  Upon hearing the news, Joan’s eyes became watery, and she quickly went to her room. Esther sat with a disheartened expression. “I’m sorry, Esther. I didn’t mean to upset you. Maybe I should leave.” Esther regained her composure and with a smile reached across the table for his hand.

  “Please don’t leave, Doyle. I’m surprised but I suppose I shouldn’t be, he’s been heading toward trouble for a long time.” Doyle took on a grim smile and lightly squeezed Esther’s hand.

  After several minutes of unrelated conversation, Esther rose to fix supper and then Joan rejoined them to eat. When they finished and collected the dirty dishes, the women started washing and drying. However, Doyle, with a wide smile, took the dishcloth from Joan and took over.

  Once the dishes were put away and coffee poured, Doyle said with a sober face, “The main reason I’ve come to New Orleans, Esther, is to help you develop an escape plan in case a war breaks out.”

  “Do you think the politicians can settle the matter, or do you think war is inevitable?” Esther questioned.

  Doyle shook his head. “Both sides are like two bulls, Esther; neither one is going to back down. I may be wrong, but I’ve concluded there’ll be a war. A few insiders I know expect it too.”

  “When do you think the fighting will start, Mr. Doyle; assuming it does start?” Joan asked.

  “The friction between the two sides is building fast. If matters don’t change and the sides don’t cool off, fighting could begin within a couple of months.”

  “Where should we move if the fighting starts?” Esther asked.

  “You can’t wait until the fighting starts—that’ll be too late; you’d never be allowed to leave the city.” Silence gripped the table for a long minute, and then Doyle’s challenging eyes focused on Esther. “To be on the safe side, I want you and Joan to leave New Orleans within two weeks.”

  “What about Mark?” Joan asked excitedly.

  “Hopefully, he’ll be on a voyage when the war starts. I doubt if any cargo ships will be allowed in or out of U.S. Harbors during the fighting. Mark could be stuck in another country until the war is over.”

  “What if he’s not on a voyage? What happens to him then?” the girl ask.

  Doyle’s expression changed. “He’ll most likely join in the fighting.”

  Esther rose and went to a window, looking toward the cargo-filled docks dimly lit by oil lamps. After standing at the window for a minute or so, she asked without turning toward them, “Where should we go, Doyle? Where could we go that isn’t influenced by the war?”

  “I imagine troops will be moved from area to area on the country’s waterways, and if that’s the case, it’s where most of the fighting will take place—in towns along the rivers. You need to live inland from the waterways, Esther—someplace not populated.” Doyle thought on the matter for a couple minutes and then said, “You could hook up with a wagon train in St. Louis and head west through the plains to Colorado or some other territory out that way.” Doyle paused for a time and then continued with a nod, “Steamers can get all the way to Fort Smith this time of the year because of the high-water level from the spring rains, but after the water level declines, navigation to Fort Smith by large boats will be eliminated. If I was you, that’s where I’d head. After you get to Fort Smith, you can travel northwest by wagon into a desolate place in the Oklahoma territory.”

  “How much would the trip to Oklahoma cost, Doyle? Esther asked.

  “I can negotiate free travel to Fort Smith on a Natchez steamer; once a team and wagon have been purchased, the wagon travel should be fairly inexpensive,” he answered.

  Esther paused, “Would it be safe for Joan and me to travel alone? I wouldn’t want to take a chance on us being molested.”

  Doyle looked at Esther with smiling eyes, and then after taking a long swallow of coffee said, “Don’t worry about it, Esther; I’ll be traveling with you.”

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  The Natchez pulled up to the dock at Fort Smith in late afternoon on February 3, 1861. Doyle was given directions to the town’s best hotel which turned out to be fairly nice. It had a pleasant dining room with a variety of food, and both Doyle’s room and the women’s were clean with a firm mattress and a good size wash stand with two pitchers of water. The rooms were well furnished and had windows, framed in red curtains, facing the street.

  After unpacking and settling themselves a bit, they took a walk down the street which was lined with businesses. They walked in agreeable silence, except for the sound of their clicking heels on the boardwalk, as each of them observed the stores’ window displays which were much different than those in New Orleans. The passerby’s clothing was also different from what they were accustomed to. The town’s women wore plain dresses of solid colors, fronted with aprons; and most wore matching bonnets. The men were dressed in western garb. They wore wide-brimmed, out of shape hats of various colors and black or brown leather vests with tobacco strings hanging out of their pocket. Their wool pants were stuffed into high heeled riding boots with pointed toes. Some had on spurs, and a few wore chaps over their pants. Most people greeted Doyle and the two women with a tip of their hat, a nod, or a friendly smile. Occasionally, folks would turn to have a second look at the three strangers.

  All-in-all, the people seemed nice and portrayed a calm approach to life. It seemed to Doyle and the women the people of Fort Smith went about things in a normal way, seemingly unconcerned about the potential for war that occupied the folks in New Orleans. In fact, they had heard very little talk of war since arriving in town.

  The following morning after their arrival, Doyle sat on a boardwalk bench with a few old-timers asking their opinion where he and the women should go to find a safe place to live in this part of the country. A place where military fighting was unlikely. “Don’t forget about the Indians,” a tall, elderly man said as he spit a long brown string of tobacco juice toward the road—some falling short onto the boardwalk. “The Union Army had to put the Indians in their place at an uprising near Wichita Village a couple years back, but they’ve tamed down since then. I’d be extra careful if I was you, a lot of the young bucks are still trying to get back at the white man. It’s best to stay out of their territory and keep a keen lookout for ʼem wherever you travel.”

  Doyle watched a man roll a cigarette with a degree of class and after lighting it and taking a long deep drawl said, “The safest place I know of around here is Fort Gibson. It’s a town of a hundred or so folks that sprung up for military protection and named after an army stockade a few hundred yards away. However, when the army pulled out in ʼ57, the fort was taken over by the Cherokee Nation and renamed Keetoowah. I hear the natives who presently occupy the fort are mostly elderly and friendly, not causing any problems with the town folks whatsoever—even intermingling some.”

  “Where’s Fort Gibson located and
how long will it take us to get there if we travel by wagon?” Doyle asked.

  “It’s in Muskogee County, northwest of here about sixty miles—mostly west. The travel’s fairly easy since it’s across flat prairie land—take ʼya nigh on to four days to get there by wagon. The town itself sits on flat prairie ground, but it’s backed up against a low mountain ridge and has a mountain stream flowing through town.”

  By nightfall, Doyle had purchased an oversize wagon and two large draft horses from the local smithy. He was tempted to buy four because the load would be heavy with the three of them and their supplies on board, but since the trip was through flat country and only for four days, he figured two horses would be sufficient if they took their time. Leaving the wagon and team at the livery to be picked up the following morning, Doyle went to a gun store where he purchased two rifles, a handgun with holster, several boxes of shells, and a long knife in a scabbard.

  While Doyle was negotiating for the team and wagon and buying his arsenal, Esther and Joan were inside the mercantile purchasing a month’s supply of food and other sundry items including household things such as bedding, lanterns, and pots and pans. They also bought clothing suitable for this part of the country.

  »»•««

  Early the next morning, the horses stepped into their pull, and with the sun to their backs, they headed out alongside the Arkansas River’s grass-covered river bank. The wagon was full of personal items brought from New Orleans and the store purchases bought yesterday in Fort Smith. Tied onto the wagon’s sides were three thirty gallon barrels of water and a canvas with poles in case of rain. The weight of these items, coupled with the passengers’ weight made the pull strenuous on the horses, but they took hourly rest stops and the passengers walked part of the time.

  The afternoon sun warmed things up considerably and soon was shining directly into their faces, causing heads to start drooping. It wasn’t long until Esther was sound asleep with her head resting on Doyle’s shoulder and Joan’s was leaning on her mother’s.

  Nothing out of the ordinary happened during the first three days of travel except to see herds of buffalo grazing on the long stem grass—it looked as if some herds numbered in the thousands. The noon meals and evening stops had gone well, and the horses were holding up satisfactorily, eating the long stem prairie grass, and drinking from the river.

  They left camp at first light on the fourth day and headed north on a trail through the open prairie leading to Fort Gibson, expecting to get there by late afternoon. The sky was full of dark clouds, and a mist filled the air—occasionally raining. A cold westerly wind coupled with the mist caused their bodies to shiver even though they wore rain gear over their coats.

  During their noon stop, Doyle put up the canvas shelter within inches of the wagon and built a fire under it with dried buffalo manure, or what folks in the west called chips. He placed a grill from the wagon over the fire and soon had a pot of coffee water on it along with two skillets. One for bacon and one for sliced potatoes. It wasn’t long until the bacon and potatoes were turning a golden brown and the coffee water was steaming.

  The food was good, but they savored the hot coffee as it warmed their chilled bodies. They were sitting against the wagon wheels enjoying a second cup of coffee when Joan spoke up, “We must be getting close to Fort Gibson; there’s smoke up ahead.” At her words, Doyle and Esther quickly stood.

  “That’s not coming from Fort Gibson,” Doyle said with anxiety, “It looks to me like something large is on fire based on the amount of smoke.”

  “Maybe the Indians are burning something,” Esther said with dancing eyes.

  “Hurry,” Doyle said, “We need to be prepared in case trouble comes our way. Esther, you, and Joan take down the canvas and put out the fire; be sure and don’t let it smoke—pile plenty of dirt on it. I’ll get the horses and hitch them to the wagon. We need to be ready to leave within ten minutes.”

  Doyle remembered passing over a ridge a ways back that would hide the wagon, and the wet ground would keep wagon dust from rising, so after loading their gear and hitching the team, they headed back.

  With the team and wagon in hiding, Doyle and the women lay on their chests looking over the top of the ridge at the distant black smoke swirling eastward. Doyle had his handgun strapped on and two loaded rifles lying beside him. Nothing was said as they waited, but all three heard gunshots.

  By mid-afternoon, the flume was nearly gone, and the sky had cleared considerably, but Doyle and the women were cautious and stayed in hiding as time passed.

  »»•««

  The February sun was a little past high-noon when they saw several Indians within a quarter of a mile riding south. All eyes stayed on them until the Indians were out of sight and the dust had settled. “Those Indians look awfully dangerous. Are there many like them roaming the country out here?” Joan asked.

  “Not as many as there were a few years back, Joan, but I imagine there are still a few in the area,” Doyle answered.

  “Do you think they’re gone, and it’s safe to leave?” Joan asked.

  “We’ll wait a bit longer and only leave if they don’t circle back,” Doyle answered.

  The three sat for nearly an hour with few words being spoken before they boarded the wagon and heading out. The sun was in its mid-afternoon position when the wagon rolled up to the burnt carnage of a homestead. They looked in shock at the devastation of the smoldering fire that had destroyed the work and dreams of someone’s struggle for a better way of life—most likely a couple who were raising a family to carry on their family line.

  All three climbed down from the wagon and began a search of the loss. A southern trail of cow and shod horse prints indicated the homestead’s livestock had been driven off. Chickens were scratching and pecking for bugs in the distance and in a pen close to the barn, nine small pigs and three mature hogs lay dead—they’d been shot. Doyle found the body of a man who appeared to be in his thirties lying on the ground between where the house and barn had been. Doyle nearly vomited as he gazed upon the body with two bullet holes in his chest and his head mutilated from scalping. Esther found evidence a woman and children must have been living at the homestead, but no bodies could be found. “Let’s spread out and make a thorough search of the grounds,” Doyle called out. “Maybe they’re still alive.”

  As Esther circled the grounds, she came to the outhouse, which had not been torched, and while passing it, she heard a faint noise, like a slight knock of some kind. It could be the woman and children I’m looking for, she thought, but it could be an Indian in hiding, so she went to Doyle for help.

  With rifle pointing toward the outhouse door, Doyle gave Esther the signal to open its door. A woman with a wild expression and dancing eyes sat on the toilet’s bench clenching two children in her arms. Doyle lowered his rifle. He judged the girl to be about ten and the boy maybe eight. They were all covered in filth with tears running down their cheeks. All three were in total shock, thinking their lives had come to an end.

  Both Doyle and Esther were shocked as they stood looking at the devastated faces of a woman who had just became a widow and her two children who had lost their father. Esther recovered first and said, “We’re not going to hurt you…we’re here to help.” Esther paused and then with an outreached hand said, “You’re safe now…please come out.”

  Holding Esther’s hand, the woman slowly walked out with the children holding tightly onto her. Time passed slowly as she looked about at the devastation. All of a sudden, her expression changed. “Where’s Duncan?” she cried out, “Where’s my husband?” Esther pulled the woman to her. Apparently, she had guessed the fate of her husband because deep sobs came as her head rested on Esther’s shoulder.

  “I’m sorry,” Esther said softly, “but your husband has been killed.”

  “Where’s his body?” she asked pulling away from Esther.

  Doyle quickly spoke. “It’s laying between the house and the barn.” She started off,
but Doyle called her back. “I need to warn you, ma’am; it’s not a sight to behold. He was shot twice in the chest, and he’s been scalped. If I was you I’d not let the children see him; they can stay with us ʼtil your grieving over him is finished, then I’ll bury his body.”

  Esther took the children to their wagon which was a good distance from where their father’s dead body laid and out of hearing of their mother’s crying and sobs. Doyle gave the woman a considerable time to grieve over her husband, remembering the horrifying struggle he’d been through when he buried his wife years ago. Finally, he went to the woman. “It’s time to go ma’am. Why don’t you and the children go to the well and clean yourselves the best you can while I bury your husband’s body?” The woman wiped her eyes on her apron and after giving Doyle a nod, headed off. Doyle’s shirt was wet from digging the grave when he headed for the wagon.

  “My name is Doyle Owens, and the lady is Esther Taylor. May I ask what your names are?” Doyle said when he got to the wagon. The mother was Dora Lankford, and the children were Kate and Jason.

  »»•««

  They traveled for a spell in twilight that night, wanting to get away from the carnage. Esther and Joan tried to comfort the children with conversation, but they only received a nod or one-word answers. Doyle walked beside the wagon with Joan, and the boy and Esther did the driving with Mrs. Lankford and Kate sitting beside her. It was full dark when they stopped at the bottom of a low rolling valley, but the rain clouds had passed and the moon was turning full which helped.

  Doyle put up the canvas shelter beside the wagon and started a small fire, knowing it couldn’t be seen because of the valley walls. Within minutes, coffee grounds were dumped into the steaming water, and the skillets of food were ready. Esther filled cups and passed them around. Then she filled plates and handed them out, but Dora refused hers. “You need to eat, Dora,” Esther said rather firmly. “I know you’re demoralized with the loss of your husband and home, but you’ve got to think of your children; this is hard traveling, and you’re their strength at this point. You need to be strong for them…so eat up.”