The Diary of Mattie Spenser

by Sandra Dallas

  I did not reply until Luke returned and sat down, his head in his hands. “Thank God you apprehended them. I believe they will hang. A jury would never set them free,” I said.

  Luke glanced up at Mr. Bondurant, then turned to me, and, pronouncing each word slowly and distinctly so’s I would not misunderstand, he said, “We are farmers, not peace officers, and there are occasions when we must deal out justice with our own hands. We have neither the time nor the means to take those two to Denver for trial. I think no man will take issue with what we did. We gave Mrs. Osterwald a Christian burial. I myself said the words over her. The Osterwald men . . . well, they’re gone. No one need ever fear them again.”

  “Then—”

  “It’s done. You mustn’t repeat any of this. The Osterwalds are gone, and their place is burnt to a cinder. We shall mention the name only when necessary,” Luke said. After he finished speaking, Husband looked very tired, so weary, in fact, that I thought he might fall asleep at the table.

  “You must lie down,” I said, taking his hand and leading him to the bed. I invited Mr. Bondurant to rest, too, but he refused, saying he would go home. I think he was not in need of sleep so much as whiskey.

  As Mr. Bondurant put on his coat, Johnnie awoke, and, seeing father and friend, he demanded to be held. I told him he must be quiet, but both men rallied and insisted on playing with Boykins, teasing him and tossing him into the air. I think that innocent child did a little to erase the monstrous events at the Osterwalds’ for both men, but not for me. I am heartsick over the death of one more innocent woman in this place and cannot help but wonder who will be the next.

  February 23, 1868. Prairie Home.

  All in the neighborhood attended Sabbath service and were much subdued, although not one word was spoken about the Osterwalds. Someone must have told the lady homesteaders, because they were quite as melancholy as the rest. When Miss Hested noted that there were none of her favorite pasties on the table, following the service, Miss Figg whispered a quick word, and Miss Hested was quiet. Pasties were always Mrs. Osterwald’s contribution.

  February 25, 1868. Prairie Home.

  Luke to Mingo again yesterday. He goes ’most every week now. I am glad to have him away, for his moods are blacker than ever. At times, he stares at me with such intensity that I am quite unnerved, but when I inquire the reason, he only scowls. I believe he broods over the Osterwald situation. Nor has he forgotten our little Sallie. The past few months have been hard on him.

  Tom stopped by, the first time except for Sabbath service that I have seen him since the Osterwald farm burned down—which is the way we put it. He did not enlighten me on the events of that night. In response to my vague inquiries, he replied something about moral laws, adding that the Osterwalds are better forgotten.

  He was more anxious to talk of Jessie and Moses, who are spending the winter in Denver again but will go to the Swan River, high in the mountains, as soon as spring arrives. The area is one of the older diggings, but Moses has intelligence that it may be “hot” again. In the meantime, Moses writes, they do very well in Denver, by which I conclude that Jessie does well, for she is the one with the income. Tom does not appear to know what business she is in, and I, of course, have not informed him.

  Then we fell to talking about poor President Andrew Johnson, whose certain impeachment will mean lack of confidence in the greenback, and, in turn, a harder time attracting capital to our corner of the country. I am of the opinion that the President is self-willed, obstinate, and unfit for office. But such faults are not cause for casting him aside, said I, for if they were, who amongst us could be President? Tom, however, believes the President will be gotten rid of, for Mr. Johnson is an obstructionist and proved himself a true copperhead by denying statehood for Colorado. I replied I was not sure the Southerners thought so well of him, remembering Sallie Garfield calling Mr. Johnson a “renegade, a demagogue, and a drunkard.”

  “All three in one man? Even General Grant did not rate such a compliment from the Rebels,” said Tom, and we had a good laugh. We are in agreement that General Grant, who is Tom’s own hero, not only for his brilliant military battles but because he lives near Tom’s old home in Jo Daviess County, will be our next President.

  Our discussion was so lively that we forgot the time, until we heard the return of the wagon. Tom stayed to supper so he could elicit Luke’s opinion on our President, but, to his disappointment, Husband was deep in his own thoughts and not much for politics.

  March 7, 1868. Prairie Home.

  I am put out with Luke for taking Johnnie to Mingo today. There appears to be no danger of snow, but the weather is bitter cold, and I thought it wrong to expose so small a child. Luke disagreed, saying that if he is to be a Colorado boy, growing up with the country, Johnnie must be tough. Indeed, Husband accused me of coddling our son, saying I had tied him too tightly to Mama’s apron strings. Luke has found fault with me in every way in recent days, so I said no more.

  I believe he took heed of my concern, however, for Luke asked me to me dress Johnnie in so many layers of clothing that he looked like a boy twice his size. Luke took a change of garments for both himself and Johnnie in case the weather turns wet, packing the clothing in a little trunk (not the one in which I keep this journal, for I should never let him have access to it). Wrapped in a buffalo robe, they went off in high spirits, so I waved gaily, despite my misgivings. Johnnie waved back, though he could scarcely lift his little arm, so encumbered was it with sweaters and coat.

  Their departure has put me out of sorts, although my monthly sickness, with the attendant backache, shares the blame. O, that it were summer and I could indulge myself with a leisurely bath in the “garden.” It is too cold to bathe even indoors, though I build up the fire. The wind is so fierce, even our thick sod walls fail to keep out the drafts. Luke means well with Johnnie, but I shall worry until they are safely home.

  It is nightfall, and Luke and Johnnie are yet away. As there is no storm, I do not know what delays them. I thought perhaps the cold made Luke keep Baby in town for the night, but upon further reflection, I do not believe that to be the case, for Luke should have finished his errands and been on his way by midafternoon, when the sun was yet out. Besides, there is no lodging in Mingo excepting for the saloon, and that is hardly suitable for Boykins. I fear the two have met with an accident, and I have knelt the past half hour in prayer, begging God to keep them safe. Next time, I shall make use of foot instead of knee, by putting it down when Luke insists on taking Johnnie to Mingo in such cold.

  March 8, 1868. Prairie Home.

  The thermometer stood at seventeen below zero, and midnight had come and gone when Luke returned home. I gave him a tongue-lashing such as he has never before received from me. He bore it in silence, as if deserving the rebuke. Though wrapped in a buffalo robe, sleigh robe, and the warm homespun blanket Luke carried in the war, my baby was chilled to the bone. I held him close and rocked him to warm the little fellow, then put him to bed, surrounded by stones heated on the stove and wrapped in cloth. Nonetheless, the chills turned to fever before dawn arrived, and I spent many hours answering Johnnie’s pitiful cries for water. I fear he has contacted catarrh or la grippe.

  Luke is upset over Baby’s condition, but to my inquiries as to their whereabouts yesterday, Luke gives not the slightest satisfaction, saying only that the road was bad and the time got away from him. When I remarked I did not understand how six or eight hours passed without his knowledge, Luke murmured it was not a wife’s place to question her husband.

  “It is a mother’s place to know the whereabouts of her son,” I retorted. Of course, I should not have spoken to Luke in such manner, but I had been frantic with worry, and his lack of concern for Johnnie made me bold.

  Luke is contrite—a virtue he has never shown before—and spent today in the barn, coming into the house only for meals. He is in the barn now, though the cold there is fierce. I am greatly fatigued but cannot sleep, for fea
r of missing Baby’s call. Johnnie is fitful, even when I rock him, having developed a cough that racks his hot body. I apply an affusion of vinegar and cool water to break the fever, but I dare not make him too wet, for fear the chill will return. I also doctor him with febrifuge tea, made of snake and valerian roots.

  March 10, 1868. Prairie Home.

  Mr. Bondurant called today, and discovering Johnnie’s illness, he went home and returned with an infusion made from wild-cherry bark. He claims it is better than febrifuge and cures all ailments, including his rheumatism. I am grateful for the infusion, as Boykins’s symptoms are worse. When Tom arrived later, having been told of Johnnie’s condition by Mr. Bondurant, I asked that he write a letter to Jessie requesting her advice. Tom agreed to do so at once, riding to Mingo to post it this very day. With any luck, we shall receive a reply within the week, though I pray Johnnie will be well by then. O, that there were time to write home for help! Never have I felt the need of a woman friend so keenly as now that my precious baby is ill. I do not tell Luke the depth of my despair, confiding it only in my journal.

  March 11, 1868. Prairie Home.

  Exhaustion caused me to fall asleep this afternoon. When I awoke, Luke was holding a cup of water to Johnnie’s parched lips. I jumped up, but Luke ordered me to rest, saying it was his turn to attend to our little patient. When Boykins closed his eyes, Luke took my hand and said he was certain Johnnie would recover. I believe there were tears in his eyes. As Luke finds it difficult to admit to an error, this was as close to an apology as I should expect, and I forgave him with all my heart. How can I remain angry with a father who loves our son so?

  Tonight, Johnnie’s throat is badly swollen, causing him great difficulty in swallowing, and he cries out in pain when he moves his little neck. I wash his face and comb his hair to soothe him, but it does not help.

  March 12, 1868. Prairie Home.

  Delirium has set in. Johnnie frets, calling, “Papa” and “Mama” in his sleep, and once he cried out, “Pret’ lade,” which made me laugh, the first time I have done so in many days.

  Luke is much underfoot now, going from house to barn and back again to see if Johnnie’s condition has improved. I think up chores for him to do to occupy his time. Each morning, Luke spreads hay upon the floor of our Prairie Home for a carpet, then sweeps it up and replaces it the following day. The hay keeps the sickroom fresh. My rag rug, which I save for good, is set upon the hay, for I think it warms the room and cheers it, too.

  Though it is too early for a reply from Jessie, Tom rode to Mingo, and he says he will do so each day, until it is received.

  March 13, 1868. Prairie Home.

  The delirium continues, with Johnnie calling out the same three names. I no longer laugh when I hear the cry of “Pret’ lade.” The fever and fitfulness are worse, and I am sick with fatigue and worry. God knows, I would give my life for my son. Yet I am powerless to cure him. Why is there not some woman nearby to offer me aid and comfort?

  March 14, 1868. Prairie Home.

  Johnnie awoke this morning with an angry red throat, sprinkled with white spots, confirming my worst fears. My poor boy has scarlet fever. I read and reread the instructions in Dr. Chase’s Recipes in hopes of discovering something previously overlooked that will help him, but there is nothing more to be done. Johnnie’s eyes are dull and do not focus on Mama’s face.

  Tom rode to Mingo in threatening weather today, but there is still no word from Jessie. Pray God that she has not left for the Swan River.

  March 15, 1868. Prairie Home.

  All at Mingo know of Johnnie’s condition and leave the room when Tom walks in, for fear he will bring the infection. Tom told us about it in hopes of amusing us, as he finds it queer that men who are frequently exposed to Indians, outlaws, and drunken fights are afraid of a child’s disease. Mr. Connor tells Tom to stay away until Johnnie is well, but Tom insists he will return each day, until he receives the letter from the Denver “doctor,” as if that will cause Mr. Connor to hurry the mail.

  Mrs. Wheeler sends word that the Southern treatment for scarlet fever is pulverized charcoal and spirits of turpentine mixed with a little milk, which I have concocted, but Johnnie refuses it. Tom bought precious apples for apple tea, of which Baby sipped a little.

  Johnnie’s skin is deep red with a rash, and I rubbed him with bacon grease before wrapping him in flannel. While Luke sat with Johnnie, Tom and Mr. Bondurant took me outside for a walk, saying if I did not get exercise and fresh air, there would be two of us to be doctored. Having cared for me once before, said Tom, they did not relish tending such an obstreperous patient again.

  March 16, 1868. Prairie Home.

  Johnnie is in a coma, no longer repining. This state is worse than any before. No word from Jessie. Baby is in God’s hands.

  March 17, 1868. Prairie Home.

  I left my boy’s side for only a moment to put the hotcake batter into the pan for Luke’s breakfast, when Johnnie took a long, deep breath and shuttered, his little body trembling gently for a few seconds. Then he was still, and I knew in that instant, his life had gone from him. I dropped the griddle onto the floor and rushed to the bedside with a prayer that it was not so, but Johnnie lay quietly, his sightless eyes turned to the ceiling. O, poor boy, that his last moments were spent without his mother’s arms around him! I picked up the dear form, which was very light, for he had lost much weight during his illness, and sat in the rocking chair, just as I had with Sallie, praying, “Not my will, but Thy will be done.” But, O, I did not mean it!

  Then, as if pretending my boy was only asleep, I sang to him his favorite songs, “Old Dan Tucker” and “When Johnny Comes Marching Home,” until Luke, who was doing chores in the barn, returned to the house.

  He saw the griddle on the floor and rushed to the rocker. I shook my head, for my grief was too deep for me to speak.

  “Is he gone?” Luke whispered, refusing to believe what his eyes told him was so.

  I nodded.

  “O, my soul!” Luke knelt upon the dirt floor beside me and took the little hand into his own. Then he broke into ragged sobs. I put my hand on his shoulder, but he only cried the harder.

  “It was God’s will,” I struggled to tell him.

  “No,” Luke cried. “It was mine. O, blame me. The fault was mine. Forgive me, Mattie.”

  “Hush.”

  Luke cried for many minutes, his face against my skirt, and when the sobs ended, he asked to hold his son, lifting up his arms to receive Johnnie.

  I do not know how long Luke and I sat there grieving, when, without knocking, Tom burst through the door, a letter in his hand. “It’s come. Jessie saves the day. . . .” Tom stopped when he saw the scene before him, and, shaking his head once or twice as if to make it go away, he gasped, “No! No! Not Johnnie, too!” He slumped onto the bed, his face in his hands.

  Mr. Bondurant arrived a few minutes later, for Tom had called out to him as he galloped past, telling of the letter’s arrival. Johnnie’s death was as hard on that faithful friend as Kitty’s had been. He did not cry, but he set his stony face and said again and again, “Hellfire! Hellfire!”

  And so our little band gathered quietly around the body of the one we loved so well. I draw strength from their love, and from Luke’s, and without it, I do not know how I could go on.

  March 18, 1868. Prairie Home.

  I wanted to bury Johnnie yesterday with but little ceremony, surrounded by the four who loved him most, but the others said Johnnie was beloved of many who would want to say their final good-byes, and they have persuaded me to hold the service tomorrow. Luke used the carved drawers of Grandmother’s little commode, which I brought from home, to make the coffin. The lining is what remains of my China silk wedding dress. I washed my precious boy with great care, cut a lock of his hair, which I shall save in this book, then dressed him for eternal rest in the nightshirt Carrie made for his Christmas present. I know God shall recognize him, even without the name so loving
ly embroidered upon it.

  Mr. Bondurant dug our baby’s grave under the tree, next to Sallie’s. Tom takes our sad news to the neighbors.

  When Sallie died, Luke kept his grief to himself, but he turns to me in this great sorrow. Last night, we held each other as we never have before. Although I did not care to do it, I allowed marital relations, even encouraging Luke to show him I did not place the blame for our mutual tragedy on him. I thought the act would give him release and allow him sleep. I myself found no release.

  March 19, 1868. Prairie Home.

  I do not believe I have ever seen so many people gathered together in Colorado Territory as came to pay their respects to Johnnie. Among the mourners were the lady homesteaders, Mr. Amidon, the Smiths, the Russians, the Wheelers, and several residents of Mingo who are friends of Luke’s and who admired Johnnie from his trips to town. To my surprise, Mr. Connor was among them. They feel keenly the loss of one who was a great favorite amongst them, and several told me stories of Johnnie’s clever remarks and winning ways. Though they are not my kind, these people are good, and I took comfort in their heartfelt presence.

  The service was brief and to the point, for I wanted our friends to remember the joy of Johnnie’s short life, not the sorrow of his passing. We recited together holy verses, then sang Christian hymns. As Luke could not speak, the service ended with a prayer from Tom, asking God to accept this little boy who could brighten even the heavens.

  As the men replaced the earth and sod over the tiny coffin, the women set out a dinner, sharing their meager supplies, as everything has been scarce this winter, excepting snow. They left behind such a generous store of cakes, stews, and other edibles that I shall not have to cook for several days. I put out my best china and silver, for the day was in honor of Johnnie, and as I gathered up the things, I saw my prized Delft plate had been broken in half. What does it matter, when I have suffered so great a loss?