Chloe wailed.
“Poor thang,” one of the soldiers said. “She damn near hysterical.”
“It gonna be all right, ma’am,” another soldier said to her.
And then a third: “I think this is that lady we heard of, Mrs. Joseph Wilson.”
At the sound of her white name, Chloe let out another wail.
“What the hell did you do to her?” a soldier asked me.
I shrugged. “I killed her husband and I took her. She was treated no differently than any other white woman.” I spat. And then the soldier raised the butt of his rifle and hit me in the head. The last I heard was Chloe speaking Comanche. “Kweepoonaduh Tuhmoo is my husband,” she said. “Kweepoonaduh Tuhmoo is my husband.”
When I came to, Chloe was nowhere in sight and Bad Hand himself was leaning over me. “You’re that nigger Indian,” he said. “And that woman is Mrs. Joseph Wilson? Am I right?”
I moaned and tried to make my eyes focus. I was still in the canyon; I could see that. The sun was high overhead now. The scent of scorched buffalo meat filled the air. I rolled over and threw up into the dirt.
“We’re saving you for the noose,” MacKenzie said.
I suppose that Nakuhakeetuh was taken out of the canyon, that she was guarded and watched over, and that some sort of escort was formed to return her to Drunken Bride to be among “her people.” I, too, was escorted under heavy guard out of the canyon, as were our captured horses. At the top of the cliffs the best horses were culled for payment to the Tonkawa scouts, and some for Bad Hand’s own use, and the rest were shot. A thousand of them or more. I watched as they were led in groups to a firing line. As the grim task went on they became more and more difficult to handle. They screamed and stamped and reared up, and it did not matter. At the end of the day there was a pile of dead horses at the top of the Palo Duro Canyon, the place where we had felt so safe. Down below, our villages still burned. Down below was the crushed body of my son. Inside, I wept. Outside, I stayed the defiant warrior, the nigger Indian who had kidnapped and raped Mrs. Joseph Wilson.
I saw Chloe one last time. It was the day that I was driven into Drunken Bride for my trial. It was the end of February, after I had spent the winter in the jail at Fort Concho. A large crowd had gathered in the street to witness me being led in. I sat chained in the back of a wagon, just as Chloe and I had once been chained in the back of Master Wilson’s wagon. As we approached the town one of the guards turned to me and said, “You’re quite a celebrity, Persy. Gonna be a lot of people here for your trial, I bet.”
“A lot more for your hanging,” another guard said.
They laughed. I had heard this teasing before. All winter long my guards at Fort Concho had told me that I was famous, the famous nigger Indian.
“You’re gonna hang in Drunken Bride,” I was told. “After what you people did to that town, they’ll be out in droves to watch you dangle from a rope.”
All winter long I had listened to this, as well as the updates my guards gave me on the Indians I had ridden with. White Horse surrendered. Tabananica, White Wolf, Big Red Meat, Little Crow, all captured. This band has come in and surrendered, I was told, whenever they themselves got the news. That band captured. Another band surrendered. The Cheyenne. The Arapaho. The Kiowa. The Kataka. Most of the Comanche. As I listened to this news, to the fates of my comrades and the fate planned for me, I fingered Chloe’s button and thought always of her.
Now, as we traveled into Drunken Bride, I heard a boy call out, “Here they come.”
“Quite a crowd,” the driver said.
I sat up to look. There were so many of you lining the street. As the procession approached you became quiet. The soldiers in front rode in, followed by the wagon, and then the guard following behind. A man walked up and spit in my face. I lifted my hands to wipe the spittle from my eyes. My chains rattled. I let my hands back down, and then I saw her. She was standing at the edge of the crowd, her hands resting on her stomach, big with my child now. We smiled at each other, just as we had smiled over the casket of Gerald Wilson when the vulture had strutted across it.
She wore a dark blue dress. Her hair was up, under a bonnet. She looked, for all the world, like a white woman. I saw the sadness in her eyes, as I imagine she saw the sadness in mine. But she was alive, and our child was alive inside of her, and she was smiling at me because this distant smile was the only way she had to tell me she loved me.
It was only a brief moment. The wagon rattled by, and as it did a white woman came up to Chloe and put her arms around her and leaned down to whisper something before leading her away. I pled guilty to all the charges against me so that she would not be required to testify.
She was known in Drunken Bride as Mrs. Joseph Wilson. She is known that way still. There was not one person in this town, Chloe once told me, with whom she was close, not one person whom she could trust. There was no one, with the exception of Master Wilson, who had ever called her by her first name or knew that she had once been a house slave.
It is written in your newspaper that Mrs. Joseph Wilson’s story is even sadder than that of the white captive Cynthia Ann Parker, whom Mo Tilly told me about all those years ago, and who, it is said among the white citizens, at least had family to return to.
You called Chloe degraded and ruined. You whispered behind her back. No white man would ever want her now, you said, as if being wanted by a white man was the ultimate compliment. And when our baby was born dead, Nakuhakeetuh, still in the birthing bed, was told that it was a blessing to lose that heathen child. A blessing, you told her. This was written in the newspaper. “He would have never fit in. Every day of Mrs. Joseph Wilson’s life this child would have been a reminder to her of the utter degradation which she suffered. The Lord in His blessed glory did not mean for this child to live.”
The church bell rang when he was stillborn. I watched from the window of my cell as the people gathered in the street and hoorayed. I did not yet know what this celebration was about, and I asked Jack, “What’s going on out there?”
“Your bastard son died,” he said. “Praise God that Mrs. Wilson won’t have that burden to carry.” He ran the barrel of his pistol across the bars of my cell. “Praise God,” he said again.
I watched the people pour into the street. They gathered below the jail and shook their fists at my window. The church bell pealed and pealed. Men shot off their guns and hooted and hollered while somewhere in Drunken Bride, I did not know where, Chloe lay in a bed listening, white women in attendance, holding her hand.
You gave our son a Christian burial, in a solitary grave out on the prairie. I watched from my cell as the wagon rolled down the street away from town, the little casket clattering in its bed, the preacher with his Bible and black hat, riding shotgun. The wildflowers were blooming, the prairie covered in color.
Two weeks later Chloe made a batch of biscuits in the kitchen of the house where she was staying, and after taking them from the oven she stole a pistol from a cabinet and walked out into the prairie and shot herself. She was buried in the cemetery behind the church, next to Master Wilson and their two children. Their names, I remember Chloe once telling me, were Anna and Jason, after her mother and the man she called father.
I watched her burial from my cell. I watched the women dressed in black, like crows, bringing handkerchiefs up to dab at their eyes. I watched the men lower her casket into the ground and the preacher holding his Bible open and praying. And I watched, after all these white people had left, a colored man shovel dirt into the grave and tamp it down, and then pound the cross into the ground.
Down below, the man at the souvenir table is doing a brisk business. I force myself to look now. Locks of dark hair, each tied with a blue ribbon, are lined in a row along his table. This is the enterprising man who cut Chloe’s hair before she was buried. He cut it and he washed the blood out of it, and he packaged it up into little bundles to be sold today, the day of my hanging. Jack bought one. It sits o
n his desk. I can see it from here. A lock of Nakuhakeetuh’s hair tied with a blue ribbon, sitting on my jailer’s desk.
The street is filled now. Those who arrived early did well to do so, for there seems to be no more room for anyone else, yet every minute I hear the creak of tack and the rattle of buggies and wagons as more arrive. I hear friends and neighbors greeting each other. I hear snatches of conversation. I imagine men, down the street in the saloon, hoisting their glasses to my pending death. Some thoughtful woman has brought a plate of food to Jack. I smell the fried chicken. My body wants to be fed. My hand no longer desires to write. My mind no longer desires to focus.
I let my fingers slip to my throat and fondle Chloe’s button, and the little noose that lies next to it. That little noose, One-Eyed Jim’s name long faded away from it, the string frayed and worn. I rub it between my fingers and it falls apart in my hand, leaving only Chloe’s button cool against my throat.
It is hot in this cell. There is no air. I have loosened my collar, unbuttoned my sleeves and rolled them to my elbows. Sweat drips from my forearm onto the paper, smearing the ink. I can only hope that this is legible, but to whom, I do not know.
“Fifteen minutes, Persy,” Jack calls to me, with his mouth full.
I must stop my writing and prepare for my death. I must change my clothes, for these clothes I wear now are not the clothes I intend to die in. Those clothes, my buckskins, my moccasins, and the faded checkered shirt I took in a raid, the clothes that I was captured in, are spread out at the end of my bed.
I see Jack finish up his food and take his feet down from his desk. He stands and wipes his fingers on his britches. He picks up the lock of Chloe’s hair and slips it into his pocket. His boots clump across the floor and he lifts a rope off its peg. The rope with which to tie my hands.
Outside the noise rises. I think that it could not become any louder, and yet it does. It has been so difficult to concentrate these last few hours. I do not know what will become of these pages. I do not know what will become of this truth. All I know is that my children are dead. My woman is dead. My people have mostly surrendered to you. The buffalo, the tahseewo, will soon be gone. My casket is ready.
A NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR
IT IS DIFFICULT to write of things gone by, times in which I did not live, and cultures of which I have no firsthand knowledge, but I believe that writing fiction is always about pushing up against what I do know in order to learn what I don’t know. I learned a great deal while writing this book: about the institution of slavery in America, the growing and processing of cane, the fall of New Orleans in 1862, the Civil War and the era known as Reconstruction, and the culture of the Comanche and their clash with the settlers and the army in Texas during the 1870s. That said, there are many things I simply can’t know. My goal in writing about the slave culture of Louisiana’s cane country and the Comanche culture of the 1800s was to honor and respect the people of those times and places.
In writing this story, I have used dialect to show the difference in Persy’s speech and the speech of those around him. The use of dialect was not limited to black characters. I understand that dialect is a sensitive matter. Normally I am not a fan of it, but I believe it has its uses, and I felt it was needed for this story. Also, the use of derogatory words was intended to reflect the era’s language and history, not to condone or exploit what I believe are abhorrent terms. I believe these words were needed to convey the reality of Persy’s life on Sweetmore and in Texas.
I apologize to anyone who finds these usages offensive.
As the Comanche had no written language during the time Persy was writing his story, I chose to use phonetic spellings of Comanche words as I understood them. I referred to Our Comanche Dictionary published by the Comanche Language and Cultural Preservation Committee. Comanche names were also tricky business, and while I studied and tried to see patterns to all the names I could find, many names were interpretations made by white culture, and therefore some guesswork was involved. Any mistakes made are my own, and again I apologize for any offense I may have inadvertently caused.
In addition, I used a novelist’s power by choosing not to name the particular band Persy belonged to. Not only did I not name this band, I chose to ignore the issue completely. I did this in order that Persy might experience firsthand certain historical events and battles. I believe this made for a better story, and I hope that it brought the reader’s attention to the overall plight of the Comanche tribe, rather than narrowing it down to the troubles of one particular band. It is easier to see connective events in hindsight than it is in real time, and I wanted to give the reader that experience.
In the end I am a novelist and not a historian, and a novelist must make many choices. In the case of these particular choices my hope was to create a good story with real tension while remaining respectful to my characters and the times in which they lived.
This is always my goal with every story.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
WRITING IS often a solitary activity. For the fortunate writer it is also an activity of community. I am a fortunate writer and am grateful to the following people, who saw me through the work on this book, chapter by chapter and draft by draft: Nora Esthimer, Joyce Allen, Ruth Moose, Paula Blackwell, Kim Church, Pat Walker, and Laura Herbst.
I had other early readers to whom I am also grateful: Betsy Joseph, Land Arnold of Letters Bookshop, Anna Jean Mayhew, John Yow, and Ben Campbell.
Special thanks to my Wednesday Night Group—aka the Iron Clay Writers—for giving me support during some difficult times and celebrating the good times: Rebecca Hodge, Claire Hermann, Barrie Trinkle, Agnieszka Stachura.
I’d also like to thank Ronlyn Domingue for being one of the most incredible writing friends I’ve ever had.
Extraordinary kisses go to my husband, Ben Campbell, for the multiple, always careful readings of this novel, and his participation in the endless conversations that took place in our household about Persy, the Comanche, sugarcane, the slave trade, the fall of New Orleans, and a million other little details and historical facts that I uncovered as I worked. And for picking me up off the floor many times.
I would also like to thank the Hope James Foundation for providing me with the funds I so badly needed for a writing retreat in my studio, the tree house. Gratitude also goes to Ann Davis for being my generous landlady at the tree house, Mary Ruth for easing me into social media, Sharon Wheeler of Purple Crow Books for welcoming me to Hillsborough and into this community of writers, and the folks at Flyleaf Books for hosting my monthly Prompt Writing class: Jamie Fiocca, Sally Stollmack, Erica Eisdorfer, and Jeremy Hawkins, as well as unnamed but generous staff for always being warm, funny, and supportive of readers and writers.
Finally, thank you to Henry Wiencek for always supporting me in my career and for helping me find a great agent, to Howard Morhaim for being that agent and for always being straight and honest with me, and to my editor, Sarah Branham, for pushing me to write a better book.
My sincerest gratitude to you all.
NANCY PEACOCK is author of the novels Life Without Water (a New York Times notable book) and Home Across the Road, as well as the memoir A Broom of One’s Own: Words on Writing, Housecleaning, and Life. She teaches writing classes and workshops in Hillsborough, North Carolina, where she lives with her husband.
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ALSO BY NANCY PEACOCK
Fiction
Life Without Water
Home Across the Road
Nonfiction
A Broom of One’s Own
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This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real places are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and events are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or places or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
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Interior design by Dana Sloan
Jacket design by Laywan Kwan
Taos Valley by Oscar Edward Berninghaus © Christie’s Images/Corbis
Author photograph by Grace Camblos
Map endpapers of North America (1852) by David Rumsey Historical Map Collection
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Names: Peacock, Nancy, author.
Title: The life and times of Persimmon Wilson : a novel / Nancy Peacock.
The Life and Times of Persimmon Wilson Page 32