The Diary of Mattie Spenser
Page 3
Now that Luke’s “dear mama” is not in the next room listening for the rattle of corn husks in the tick, Luke takes more time with the matrimonial act. He enjoys it, but I still think it overrated. I wish Carrie were here so’s I could question her. She confessed to me that sometimes she was the one to ask for “it.” Well, I never will.
When I asked Luke whether I satisfied him, he didn’t answer for so long, I supposed he hadn’t heard. Then he replied, “You’ll do.”
“Do I do something wrong?” I hoped he’d ask how I felt about the matter. Then I might be brave enough to tell him I wished he’d hug me a little, instead of turning away when he finishes, but I guess I was too bold.
“It shouldn’t be talked about.”
So I will be satisfied with Luke in other ways. If hugs and kisses were so important to me, I could have married silly old Abner, who always wanted to spark. I blush to think of being under the covers with him!
Here is one thing we both enjoy: music. I never knew until we married that Luke cared the least about singing, but he has a beautiful, clear voice, and I can always hit the note, so we enjoy many an evening’s singing by the campfire. We discovered our mutual interest one night when I hummed “The Old Rugged Cross” as I put away the supper things. Luke joined right in with the words. Then I did the harmony. “It seems I married a fine musician,” he said, and started off on “Lorena,” which he learned at Shiloh, and “Arkansas Traveler” and “Darling Nelly Gray,” and by the time we were finished, we had sung more than a dozen old favorites.
I caught Luke watching me one day when I was gazing out across the countryside, and he said, “Colorado is different from Iowa. I wonder if you’ll like it much. Perhaps it is too near sunset for you.”
That description nearly took away my breath. Of course, I shall like it. I shall love it! I thank God every day for my new husband and my new life.
June 11, 1865. Camp Noah, St. Joseph, Missouri. Two hundred twenty-three miles west from Fort Madison.
Today is my birthday. I am twenty-three years old, and little did I think on this day a year ago that my next would be celebrated with a new husband on my way to a new territory. My Darling Boy awakened me this morning with a bouquet of wildflowers, still wet with rain. Then he presented me with a breast pin containing a cunning locket, the nicest I ever saw, gold with garnets. Since I had said nothing, I did not even suspect he knew it was my birthday. But I had not counted on Mother and Carrie. I should have known they would not let the day go by without notice, and they had given gifts to Luke before we left.
From Mother came The American Frugal Housewife, along with a note, in which she said she would not allow me go to housekeeping without it, and also wishing me many happy returns of the day. Carrie gave me a needle case, embroidered by her own hand, and filled with needles of various sizes. It will prove most useful. I discovered when I hemmed my skirts that I had brought with me ample pins and threads but just two needles. We are like two halves of an apple, Carrie and I, just alike. I hope Luke will prove to be as faithful a friend as she has always been.
Luke bought the breast pin yesterday on his visit into St. Joseph, where we are camped, for it comes in a velvet box with “Jas. Felty, Jeweler, St. J.” on it. I had supposed he was only posting my letters and shopping for the remaining things we need for our new home.
I blush to think how vexed I was yesterday when he ordered me to stay with the wagon whilst he went into the center of town. I said it was necessary for me to purchase certain provisions, as only a woman knows how much should be spent on them. Why, I told him prudently, I had observed a sign advertising ham available at twelve cents the pound, and butter for two bits, and I knew I could do better. At those prices, we will have to find a gold mine to pay for our trip to Colorado.
My secret reason for wanting to go, however, was to see the delights of St. Joe., for as we passed through the town, I had glimpsed the touts in front of gambling halls, luring in the Negroes and beardless boys, and I heard the minstrel girls promenading the streets, singing, “O, California, that is the land for me.” To my disappointment, Luke said it was generally known that St. Joe was a “den of abomination” and said ’twas no place for a lady, although it appears to be no more shocking than does a Mississippi River town, with which I am well acquainted. When I replied as much, Luke said, even so, someone must stand guard over our possessions, since the people hereabouts are Secesh in their sympathies and are not to be trusted. I grumbled because it seemed the greater danger was guarding my person against the “Mormon flies,” as the horrid willow bugs are called. Now I know it was not to protect me from abominations that Luke insisted I stay at camp, but to allow him leisure to select a gift for me.
There was another reason for his solitary trip, and of this one, I am not so pleased. Luke did not want my interference when he disposed of the horses, though he would have come out better had he had it. When he returned, I told him he had made a poor bargain in exchanging the team for two pairs of oxen, a buttermilk named Red, an “Alice Ann” horse, and a milk cow. The grays are worth $500, while oxen may be had for $125 the pair, and when Luke admitted he had traded straight across, I told him he had been plucked in the manner of the chicken.
I intended to say more, but I could see Luke was angry with me, so I bit my tongue. O, Lordy, I shall have a mighty sore tongue before I get used to marriage.
I tried to make up for my harsh words by putting aside the cold supper I had set out and cooking a hot meal, but there was a smart sprinkle of rain, a regular Baptist downpour, which wet the provision box clear through, even though it was wrapped in oilcloth. I had to sprinkle gunpowder on the kindling before the lucifers (which are kept in a corked bottle, or they should have been useless) would cause it to light. I stood in the rain with only an umbrella over me whilst I kept the fire going, for I could not wear my rain cloak. Before we left Fort Madison, I had waterproofed it with melted wax and spirits of turpentine, in the Chinese method, and I feared if I put it on, it would catch fire and I should be burnt to a cinder. To myself, I named this place “Camp Misery.”
The sight of his wet and smoky wife, her clothes soaked and damp hair escaping from its net, softened Luke’s heart, for when I set out our plates under the India rubber cloth he had attached between the wagon and two poles, he pulled me down beside him and told me I was game. He said he could not see Persia standing out there in the damp to cook his supper. I considered it odd Luke would mention Persia, because I have scarcely given her a thought since we left home, but I was glad for any compliment, most especially one about that watery, half-cooked supper. Even the biscuits, on which I pride myself, were soggy, but Luke did not complain. Our appetites gave them flavor. So I replied to his compliment, “I thank you, sir!”
After we’d supped, we sang “Cross Over the River” and all other songs about water until far into the night. Then Husband christened this stopping place “Camp Noah.”
Luke was pleased with my obvious surprise and heartfelt delight at his gift this morning, and he said slyly that he hoped I was not disappointed that I had not received a butter churn instead. I replied, in the same manner, that a butter churn had been my heart’s desire, but I would make do with the gold breast pin. Then I threw my arms around him and kissed him, which he seemed to enjoy as much as I did. I shall yet bring him around to my way of affection.
While it is our habit to rest on Sunday, Luke proposed that we do so across the river, hoping the line at the ferry would be shorter on the Sabbath. The travelers’ tents here are as thick as at a camp meeting. But many are waiting at the ferry after all. We may not cross the Missouri until midday. The waters are the color of clay, a wide river, but not so noble as our Mississippi. I think the rivers in Colorado must be more like this one than the Old Miss at home.
Luke is off talking to other emigrants, and I am left with these great dumb brutes of oxen—which Luke has named Grant, Sherman, Sheridan, and Lee—the last being the obstinate one.
Luke said I might choose a name for the Alice Ann. I thought “Miss Givings” to be appropriate but prudently selected “Traveler” instead.
The oxen are more content than I am to stand in the sun and let themselves provide a feast for mosquitoes, which exceed in size any I ever saw. A few minutes ago, I took out the ugly sunbonnet and put it on. Even so, my head has begun to hurt from the sun and the glare of the white wagon covers, and I fear I will come down with one of my headaches. That worries me more than anything Luke would say about the bonnet. The wind is fierce, and I write with my little book held firmly on my writing desk in my lap while the wagon rocks back and forth in the blow.
Luke intends to inquire of the ferryman about the Red Indians. He heard warnings in St. Joe that they are bent on mischief. I observed several of them during our stay there. They are not red, but brown, not as dark as the Negro, but cursed with the same broad face. Some were vain fellows, who raced their horses back and forth on their parade ground across the river from our camp. Others are “Lo, the Poor Indian,” sitting in the mud with their hands out, too lazy even to move to a dry spot. We passed one miserable beggar who looked so woebegone that I asked Luke to give him our leftover biscuits, but Luke refused because the savage was drunk. I do not think we have much to fear from Mr. Lo and his friends on our journey.
June 18, 1865. Overland Trail, Kansas. Sixty-six miles west from St. Joseph.
After crossing on the ferry, I suggested that we should wait to form a traveling party, but Luke discounted the threat of the Red Men, saying he did not believe they were “on the warpath,” as the people along here say. He also did not want to get close to other emigrants for fear of catching the cholera, which had already attacked our camp at St. Joe. I saw a man doubled up with cramping, his pulsing veins engorged with purple blood. His wife halloed and prayed whilst the children cried piteously. I proposed to aid them, but Luke forbade it for fear I would contract the malady myself. Besides, there was nothing to be done beyond the mustard poultice his wife had applied, and even so, the man was dead by nightfall. So I left them fresh-baked biscuits on a rock and will remember them in my prayers.
Luke says we are likely to see more of the dreaded disease before we reach Colorado. I consulted Dr. Chase’s Recipes, and, using the contents of the medicine chest, I mixed us a preventative tincture of spirits of camphor, ginger, and essence of peppermint. We take a spoonful each morning.
So we have left St. Joe behind but we no longer go as the wind, for the oxen travel barely a mile in an hour, plodding instead of walking.
The fifth day out, we spotted several of the savages to the rear of us, mounted on ponies. They did not specially alarm me at first, as I thought them to be indolent, like their brothers in St. Joe. Luke smartly cracked his whip over the oxen, which had no effect on the animals at all, for nothing can induce them to hurry. Then he told me to take charge of the animals whilst he made a great display of taking out his pistol, shotgun, and rifle, which is one of the new repeating kind that does not have to be reloaded after every shot. This was to show the savages we were well armed and not in the least afraid of them. They made no move to catch up with us, but neither did they disappear. I worried they would wait until dark to accost us, and perhaps Luke agreed, for in midafternoon, finding a suitable site, we stopped to make our camp.
With the shotgun in easy reach, I prepared biscuits in the Dutch oven, which I set upon the fire. Luke sat with the rifle on his knees, watching as the savages came near the wagon.
Luke let them get a hundred yards from us before he stood up. Cradling rifle in arms, he went to meet them. They were six—two braves, as the Indian men are misnamed, one of them young, and the other as old as Methuselah, a squaw with a papoose on her back, and two little boys, dressed a la Adam. When they dismounted, I took up the pan of biscuits and greeted our visitors. The younger brave reached out as if to take them all. So I snatched them away, offering them to the woman first. From the looks of her, I thought she must starve whilst her lord and master eats his fill.
When the Indians had finished the biscuits, the squaw sat, happily picking the lice from the head of her papoose and cracking them between her teeth. One of the men pointed at me and said something in Indian to Luke, but Luke only shook his head. I wondered if Husband knew a few words of Indian from his previous trip across the plains, but this was not the time for chatter. So I kept quiet, later finding out the impudent man had attempted to negotiate a trade for me!
Whilst the Indians watched us, Luke muttered for me to take hold of the shotgun, which was loaded, and to act as if I knew how to shoot it. Then Luke took a small mirror and a penknife from his pocket and tossed them to the two men, indicating with a wave of his hand that they were to be off.
One of the men saw the coffeepot next to the fire, pointed at it, and said, “Ko-fee. Ko-fee,” thinking himself conversant in our language. Unlike his squaw, who was old and careworn, he was a handsome specimen, with the pronounced high cheekbones and glossy black hair of his people. He wore only a pair of Indian trousers, which do not cover him up as well as they might, and his strong legs and bare chest, which were the color of a copper penny, showed him to be a manly specimen.
The Indians walked toward our wagon until Luke called, “Halt!”—a word they seemed to know, because they did as they were ordered. The young Indian now turned to smile at Luke, pretending friendship, but knowing a member of that race would steal a dying man’s shoes, Husband pointed his rifle at the Indian, motioning for him to step back. The man let loose a line of gibberish, gesticulating wildly with his arms. He captured all of Luke’s attention, but fortunately, not all of mine. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the old Indian step quickly behind Luke and raise his arm. There was not time to give warning. Instead, I raised the shotgun and fired, hitting the Indian in the hand, and he yelped. Never in my life have I seen a man whose nerves were as steady as Luke’s. Instead of looking behind him, he gazed steadily at the young Indian, his rifle raised, and ordered, “Git!”
The old man cried pitifully from the wound, and he needed the aid of the squaw to mount his horse. When he was atop the animal, the others scrambled onto their ponies. Luke kept his rifle on them until they had made good their exit. Then he told me, “You saved the day. That was a lucky shot.”
“It wasn’t altogether luck,” I told him, not without a little bragging on my part. “Father says I’m a better marksman than my brothers.” My brothers say I’m as true a shot as Father, but as I know Luke is proud of his own ability with a weapon, having proved himself in the war, I said no more on that subject.
Neither of us slept much that night, but the savages did not return.
July 3, 1865. Fort Kearney, Nebraska Territory. Two hundred ninety-four miles west of St. Joseph.
The morning after last I wrote, we came across an empty trunk, whose contents were scattered about the prairie. Just beyond was a wagon, or what was left of it after its combustible parts were burned. Nearby was a fresh grave. As we had no way of knowing what had happened, Luke and I assured each other that the occupants of the wagon had met with a commonplace accident, such as a broken wheel or an everyday illness—measles, for instance. We checked our wheels, finding them in good condition, and each told the other of having measles as a child, but we did not fool ourselves. The sad state of the wagon was due to foul play by Indians, Perhaps those very savages we had encountered earlier, and so, anxious as we were to reach our new home, we agreed it would be prudent to wait for a wagon train before pulling out.
One arrived whilst we nooned, and its members were pleased to add another rifle to their arsenal. Luke told the men about our visitors and said he did not think they would give us any more trouble because “we” had shot at one and hit him. The men congratulated Luke, who did not apprise them of their error, and I kept my mouth shut. It is said a true woman would rather hear even the faintest praise of her husband than hosannas to herself. The poet who wrote that, I think, was a man.
Our decision to join the wagon train was a wise one, because Indians soon became a commonplace sight. One group followed us for two days, coming and going, sometimes disappearing for hours at a time. Foolish girl that I was, I wondered if they wanted to keep out of range of my shotgun. I fancied myself something of a legend among the Indian braves.
Shortly after we added our wagon to those of our fellow travelers, our party was joined by Mr. Benjamin Bondurant, an old prospector headed for the Colorado gold fields. He affixed himself to Luke and me, saying we were his choice because Luke had been elected by the others to be the captain of our train—the previous captain having been dismissed due to a dispute among the emigrants prior to our arrival.
Luke thought the real reason Mr. Bondurant invited himself to our campfire was that he prefers to “mess” with us instead of batching. While many of the fellows of our party live on bread and bacon, bacon and bread, we vary our meals with wild onions, prairie peas, and sweet red currants that I find as I walk along with my bag in search of buffalo chips. (Yes, I know I vowed never to stoop for them, but they are much preferred to the alternative, which is no fuel at all. The aforementioned circles of dung, also known as “meadow muffins,” serve another purpose. Two men of our party got into a “snowball” fight, flinging buffalo chips at each other, until each was covered with an odoriferous gray powder.)
The cow is still fresh. So we have butter, which makes itself. I put milk into a pail of a morning, and by day’s end, the movement of the wagon has churned it into butter as neat as you please, and we have refreshing buttermilk for our supper, too. We exchange butter for antelope, which is more than equal to the best beef in the world. Once we traded for buffalo so tough, it must have been the father of all buffaloes. I think the flesh to be the chef d’oeuvre of Lucifer’s kitchen.