by Zina Abbott
If the Butterfield Overland Despatch did well, and everyone saw what he was capable of, he might have a chance to move up to something more suited to his knowledge and experience. “When does the job start?”
“Mr. Butterfield is planning to send his first coach out on the eleventh of next month. I understand he plans to ride it himself. I’ll need you here a week before then. We’re still distributing stock to the stations. You can go with the men doing that.”
Eustace nodded and held out his hand. “You have yourself a stock tender for Ellsworth, sir. Now, let’s talk about Jubilee.”
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Chapter 3
~o0o~
Salina, Kansas
October 13, 1865
A s Lorena entered the main room where she worked, she avoided making eye contact with the bartender, Al, as she propped the broom handle against the end of the bar. If she had not been brought up as the daughter of a well-respected clergyman, she would curse Timothy for putting her in her current position. When he told her of his plans to form a partnership and take a train of goods to Denver, she begged to stay in Missouri with her sister—in a place…any place where it was more civilized. The thought of going to the frontier of Kansas terrified her.
Timothy insisted she would be safe on the first leg of their journey. As for her staying behind, he refused. He kept her with him as long as he could until he reached the last town along the trail his business venture traveled.
Even as she thought it, Lorena knew why. His goal had not changed from the first night he forced her into his bed—he intended for her to bear him a son to carry on the Mayfield name. Before they arrived in Salina, he treated her almost like a prisoner, one he feared would escape. When he left to conduct his business, he kept her locked in their room. She was allowed out only when he escorted her on walks about town or to one of the shops in whatever community they might have been staying at the time. He discouraged every attempt on her part to show any sign of independence.
Once the inventory for the freighting venture was bought and loaded on oxen-drawn wagons, she joined Timothy on the arduous journey west toward Denver. Ignoring the leering looks of the bullwhackers, she walked by the wagon during the day. At night, she shared a bedroll beneath one of the wagons while Timothy continued his efforts to get her with child before he left her behind.
Thankfully, even he realized the danger of traveling across territory where hostile Indian tribes were known to kill whites and destroy their property. He explained the freight train would be traveling where stagecoach stations and military forts were located along the trail. Some stations were cattle stations where they could swap out their tired oxen for animals that were fresh and rested. Soldiers escorted the trains the whole way. He did not anticipate any problems he and those with him could not handle. However, he acknowledged a certain amount of risk.
That was why she now lived in Salina, a town on the edge of the Kansas frontier. Lorena doubted he worried as much for her safety as he did for his child she might be carrying.
How he knew Clyde Abernathy, owner of The Stockade Saloon, Timothy never fully explained. From what Timothy told her, the two became acquainted during the war. Once she and Timothy arrived in Salina, the two men fell into an easy comradery. Clyde offered to rent Timothy a room upstairs in his establishment. Timothy accepted the offer and paid the rent through the end of April. She and Timothy stayed there the week Timothy remained in Salina. Clyde agreed that after Timothy rejoined the freight train, during his absence, the room was hers.
Timothy also dickered with Clyde to arrange for her to work as a cook and kitchen help. In return, Clyde agreed to keep her safe until Timothy returned.
It was not that Lorena minded working while Timothy was gone. The fact that he left her behind, and did not plan to return for months, was reward enough. But a saloon? Why could he not have left her in a large enough city with better opportunities for finding work in a boardinghouse or hotel?
At first, Lorena had not known what to think. The last place she wished to live for the next several months was above a saloon. She only needed to spend one night in their room to realize the three women who served drinks downstairs also took customers upstairs. However, Timothy insisted The Stockade Saloon was cheaper than a hotel or boardinghouse.
She knew Timothy made the choices he did because in his twisted mind, he believed that if she, as a Mayfield by marriage, bore his son, the child would be considered legitimate. She figured out early on that the man possessed very little, if any, moral compass.
Lorena shook her head to rid it of the angry thoughts that had plagued her since she arrived. Instead of focusing on Timothy and the problems he introduced to her life, she needed to take the opportunity of his absence to find a solution that would free her from him. I need to pray. She brushed the thought aside. How did one find the right peaceful atmosphere for prayer in a busy saloon? Maybe that night, after her work shift was over and before customers drank enough that their too-loud voices traveled up the funnel of the stairway and reached her room.
Then again, considering the life she had been living, would God even listen? I tried to resist, Lord. You know I tried. I just was not strong enough to keep enduring the pain.
Lorena blinked the thought away. She had already spent too much wasted energy grieving about the situation Timothy had forced her into. For now, she needed to do the job Clyde hired her to do—clean out the main room of the saloon to prepare it for customers later in the day. She first walked around the room with a tray to collect used glasses to take to the kitchen to wash. Although she knew Al often recycled glasses by rubbing used ones dry with a cloth—the reasoning being that the leftover alcohol cleaned anything unpleasant left on the glass surface—she felt the glasses should be washed with hot, soapy water.
After she set the glasses in a pan of suds, she brought a bucket to pick up the trash left in the room. Some of it, like the chewed ends of cigar butts, she found to be disgusting. She also carried a rag dipped in the water soaking the glasses and wrung out to wipe off the tables. The men who patronized the saloon might not appreciate the effort, but she felt better about leaving the room clean.
Lorena picked up a newspaper that had been folded several times. She turned it toward the light coming through the high windows of the front wall long enough to see the remains of a few dead flies. The paper made a crinkling noise as she unfolded it. It was a two-week-old issue of the Kansas State Record out of Topeka. The headlines announced the opening of the Butterfield Overland Despatch stagecoach company. She brushed off as many insects as she could and folded it so those that remained did not touch the inside of her pocket when she tucked it away for reading after her work hours. Another table held part of another newspaper, although the top half had been torn off. She also folded that and put it into her pocket.
“What are you hiding away?”
Startled at hearing Clyde’s voice just a few feet behind, Lorena twitched. She turned to face the man who stood a few feet behind her with his arms folded. “Some old newspapers customers left behind. I plan to read them later after work.” She forced a reassuring smile. “Timothy often brought the local newspaper to me to read. It provided a break from my needlework.” She did not clarify that Timothy did not specifically bring her newspapers. However, he sometimes left issues behind when he locked her in their room, and she took the opportunity to read them.
Clyde grunted. “Just so you know, I’m not paying you to read.”
“I’m not. I’ve gathered most of the dirty glasses and trash, and I’m almost ready to sweep and mop the floor.”
As he glared at her, Clyde’s forehead wrinkled. “Mop? Why do you think you need to mop?”
“Because not all of your customers hit the insides of the spittoons. In addition, there appears to be a lot of ground-in dirt.”
“All right. But I’m not paying you to mop every day. Maybe once a week, on
Mondays after a busy weekend. Otherwise, just sweeping and cleaning out the spittoons and the area around them will do.” Clyde turned and walked toward the room behind the bar he used as his office.
As she watched Clyde go, Lorena realized how much the confrontation had sent her heart racing. She felt it slow toward its normal beat. She walked over and picked up the broom. How good I have gotten at being deceitful—not telling the full truth without actually outright lying. Still, her first inclination had been to assume that, if she wished to read the papers, she must convince Clyde that Timothy considered that acceptable. She started sweeping from the far corner, figuring to work her way toward the door opening to the hallway that ended to the outside door which opened into an alley.
Lorena grimaced once the bristles of the broom reached the floor near the spittoons. I’d rather clean chamber pots. She sighed in resignation. As part of her new job, she would probably end up doing that, too. Lorena finished sweeping and was drying the glasses she needed to return to the bar when a sleepy-eyed Fancy sauntered into the kitchen.
Fancy covered her mouth with her hand. “Morning, sugar. There any breakfast made up, yet?”
Lorena turned to her and smiled. “No, only the bacon I fried earlier. I can cook an egg and pancakes, or make some oatmeal porridge, if you prefer.”
“No, sugar, I’m in no hurry. I’ll take one of those bacon slices and a cup of coffee for now. I’ll wait until the others are awake for the rest so we can all eat together.”
As Fancy snatched the meat, Lorena poured a cup of coffee and handed it to her. “That should give me time to mop the floor out front.”
Fancy raised an eyebrow. “Mop the floor? Why, sugar, until you came, I didn’t know what it felt like to walk around out there without my shoes sticking to the wood. You’ve spoiled us.”
Lorena placed the last of the dry shot glasses on the tray. “Evidently, Clyde thought it unnecessary. He did agree to allow me to mop once a week on Mondays.”
“Don’t let Clyde work you into the ground, sugar. He will, you know, if you give him the chance. And, you tell him you want your pay when it’s due. Don’t let him hold it for you for safekeeping. One of our girls did that, and when she decided to leave, she had a devil of a time getting him to pay her. We make sure he pays us every week now.”
As she listened to Fancy, Lorena’s movements slowed. She could not afford to not receive her money as soon as it was earned. She hoped Clyde would not claim Timothy made some special arrangement to hold her pay until he returned. “Thank you for the warning, Fancy. I’ll keep that in mind.”
“Other than that, he’s not too bad to work for. He won’t tolerate customers getting too rough with us. He knows if we decide to leave, there’s not enough women coming through here to replace us that easily.”
“This is rather far from civilization. How did the three of you end up here?”
“Rosa’s from Texas. Her brother sold her.”
Involuntarily, Lorena sucked in a breath. “Sold her? But, she’s…not –”
Fancy shook her head and responded with a deep-throated laugh. “A woman with black blood, like me? No, sugar. Her maman was a Mexican woman who took up with the brother’s father. He told Clyde he could have her for three years. He wrote a contract.” She leaned forward. “Clyde’s searched her room, but he won’t find it there. She gave it to me to hold, and Clyde knows better than to search my room. Besides, he can’t enforce it in court, anyway.” She offered a conspiratorial smile. “Don’t you tell him, sugar. We need to look out for each other.”
Lorena shook her head. “I won’t.” She knew of no reason to give Clyde her loyalty. She glanced toward the door leading to the hallway that separated the kitchen from Clyde’s office.
“He can’t hear us, sugar. He’s probably in that storeroom of his, counting his caskets of whiskey. Sabrina, now, she wandered in here after her husband died. When he filed a claim using that new land law, he started looking for a wife to help him and decided on her. Her family pressured her to marry him.” Fancy leaned back. “She started doing what you’re doing but works out front now—says working here is like being set free after being trapped with him. She likes the money she makes upstairs. She’s always telling Clyde, as long as he treats her right, she sees no need to go to a bigger town like Topeka or Kansas City.”
“Oh.” Lorena felt a sense of the incredulous that she was having this conversation with a prostitute. Two years ago, she never would have believed such would take place. Now, in one respect, she had joined in league with them as a means of group protection. Like it or not, I’m one of them. “What about you, Fancy? I’ve always been curious about your name. Is it a nickname for Frances or Francine?”
Fancy smiled at her as if she knew an important secret. “Why, no, sugar. No one here knows my real name. Fancy isn’t a nickname. It’s what I am: a fancy woman. Haven’t you ever heard of fancy girls?”
Lorena shook her head.
Fancy responded with a soft chuckle. “Oh, sugar, you need to learn a thing or two. My grand-mère’s père was white, but her maman was from Africa. My grand-mère was bought by a Frenchman doing business in New Orleans. That’s where I’m from, sugar. Even when it became easier for the men to have their white French wives, many of the well-to-do still kept fancy women. For them, it was a status symbol.”
“A status symbol?”
“Most didn’t mind. Better than being a no-account slave working in the cane fields, sugar. Fancy women dressed pretty and lived in nice houses in town. And, just because you’re a field slave didn’t mean the massah wouldn’t use you.”
“Oh.” Lorena shook her head. “I guess I can see where that kind thing happened.”
Fancy narrowed her eyes and studied her. “You’re one naïve white woman if you don’t know that happened a lot, sugar. Anyway, before he died, my grand-père freed my grand-mère and her children. My maman, as a free woman of color, was joined to my papa by contract. She agreed to be available to him and only him, and he agreed to provide for her and any children they might have.” Fancy lowered her voice. “Their joining did not have the blessing of the church, nor was it recorded as a marriage in the judge’s books. However, there was a contract, and we were a family.” Her voice returned to its normal volume. “The main difference between his white wife and children and us was that he lived with them and only visited us.” She paused. “Does that shock you, Lorena?”
Lorena swallowed and placed her hand at her throat. She now realized why no one among her family and friends would have felt it necessary to enlighten her regarding fancy women. “Somewhat. I’ve heard of mistresses, but I’ve never heard of the kind of arrangements you just described. My upbringing was rather sheltered, I’m afraid.”
Fancy leaned back her head and laughed. “You don’t have to tell me that, sugar. I suspect, until recently, your world has been rather small and—confined. I could never afford the luxury.” Fancy sighed and grew serious. “My père honored our wishes as best he could. Because my brother was a free man of color, Papa helped him get a job as a clerk in shipping. My sister could pass for white. Papa helped her go north. She supports herself as a seamstress but refuses to marry and have children. She doesn’t want to marry a man of color and lose her status as a white woman. She’s too afraid if she marries a white man and her children show signs of our ancestor from Africa, her husband will leave her, and her children will suffer.”
Lorena’s heart ached at the thought. “What about you, Fancy?”
Fancy’s laugh returned. “Why, sugar, I chose what I was raised to be. I was still young when I found my Louis and told Papa he was the one I wanted. Louis already had his white wife and two children. After he and my père worked out the details, and the contract was signed, I was his. He was very generous.” Fancy paused and gave her a look filled with the wisdom that comes from survival. “A fancy woman knows her life is not as secure as that of a man’s acknowledged white wife. If she wants to be abl
e to take care of herself and her children, should something happen, she knows she must get everything she can and put some away.” Her voice quieted. “I didn’t have time to put much away before the war came. My Louis did what he could for us, but the Yankee Navy all but destroyed the New Orleans we knew. Louis was killed, and the Yankees took his plantation.”
Fancy paused, and her face drooped into an uncharacteristic expression of sorrow. She stared across the room without focusing for several seconds.
“I’m so sorry.” Lorena reached out her hand. Her fingertips grazed the woman’s arm. “Fancy, are you all right?”
Putting her entire upper body into the gesture, Fancy shrugged. Her smile, when it returned, still spoke of sadness and resignation. She returned her gaze to Lorena. “Sure, sugar. We all had our hard times because of the war. I know I did. I used what money and jewels I owned to take care of what was most important. Now, I’m earning what I can against the day I can catch a train all the way to Denver.”
Lorena blinked in surprise. If that is your goal, why work here? Why don’t you go to Topeka or Kansas City? “Why wait? If you have enough for a ticket, you can get a stagecoach to Denver now. You wouldn’t have to wait for the railroad to get built.”
Fancy responded with what Lorena was beginning to recognize as her typical deep, throaty laugh. “Oh, sugar, there’s too many hostile Indians between here and Denver. They catch the stagecoach I’m riding in, it won’t matter to them if I’m white, black, or somewhere in between. I’d be killed all the same.” She leaned forward and lowered her voice. “You know, sugar, those natives were here first. There’s no treaty with them like the tribe who used to own the land Salina sits on. They still consider everything between here and Denver theirs, and they don’t like us settling out there or even crossing it.”