Your friend and sister, Louisianna Lawrence
I am so sad for Ulyssa, and I just can’t imagine why it is that some people’s cup of life seems to be full of bitter water all the time. Savannah is heartbroken, and came to my house today, leaving her babies with Mama. She sat on my front porch and cried a long, long spell. She has not seen her loved ones since she left them in San Angelo, and now Ulyssa will be just a day’s ride away and she still can’t see her. I held her like a little child and rocked. She cried and held on to me and we sat on the porch until the sun went down. I asked God what did He mean by it all. It would be nice if Savannah could visit them in Texas, but I’m sure she is not strong enough to travel all that way. Finally she went home to nurse her little ones.
Tonight when I tried to sleep I laid there, cold, in the dark, and felt a tiny, tiny wiggle inside me, and I think it is the baby. So I lit a lamp and got up to write this piece for a spell. I wanted to cry, but I felt too lonesome to cry, sort of like if there’s no one to hear my tears, there’s no use to shed them. My chest hurts inside when he’s not here. Damn that Army, and Geronimo, and duty and honor and saluting and folderol. Come home, Jack. Just come home.
April 18, 1886
The pieces of my windmill lie in the rain and sun and wind, near a well which my hired man, tired and overworked, has dug out again for me, as another storm filled it with mud. Mason is building a water tank with cement and rock. The garden is in and leafing. Rose came to season and I think one of the draft horses got her, because they are always close by her.
Beaumont got out and decided to eat my rose bush, and I knocked him in the head with a two by four, and chased him away from it, picking up the petals from the last rose he had crushed. Then I hit him again for good measure.
Savannah’s babies are bigger and stronger now. She is almost back to her old self, although she is tired all the time. Albert has bought lumber and cement and nails, and when it is dry enough, he works on building another room on their house. There has been no word from Jack all these weeks.
This baby I’m carrying moves all the time now. And I have plumped up, more than with April, and I’m not sick anymore at all. In fact I feel pretty good. I have finished reading Treasure Island to Mason, and he liked it fine. I would give anything to know Jack is safe and coming home soon.
April 22, 1886
A few days ago, a line of riders came this way early in the morning, all wearing blue uniforms. They said Jack was still south, traveling with General Crook and hunting Geronimo. I offered them food, but they refused it and only watered up then pressed on toward town.
This morning another rider in a uniform stopped on the sandy cliff across the road from my house, and looked this way a long time before he edged his horse down the steep side. I felt it was Jack even before I knew it with my eyes. My heart was filled when I saw him, but filled with anger and hurt and love and fear and longing all at once.
When I had him in my arms I pounded my fists against his chest, and tears ran down my face, and I kissed him hard. He was purely confused, I’m sure.
April 30, 1886
Jack is gone again, heading south instead of north toward town. He stopped at the stage station to forward a letter to the post, but returned to his duty and Geronimo. I told him I’d wear a feather in my hair and leather moccasins if he would stay home and hunt for me instead, and not give him near as much trouble finding me. But Jack just laughed, and said, Sarah Elliot, you are a treasure for sure. And he rode off.
I told Mama he said that and then she didn’t feel sorry for me one bit, but quoted the Bible saying, Where a man’s treasure is, there is his heart also.
Right now, I said, I’d rather have his hide close by too.
May 5, 1886
A short letter came to the station from Jack just two days ago. He says they have ventured far to the east, and will enter Tucson from the north where it is far away from the ranch. Then he said to be prepared for some Army folderol and ceremony, and not to expect to see him before the tenth, but be sure and come to the fort at one o’clock on the tenth.
Well, I don’t understand why this is, and I can’t shake that feeling of something being wrong. One o’clock, the tenth of May. So I took the letter to all my family, and showed Mr. Sherrill, and we will plan a trip to town. I told Albert this was just like Jack to plan something and just expect the world to stop for his plans, but Albert just smiled and said that’s how the army is, he figured. And Savannah hasn’t been to town for months except for being sick, and he is determined to get her some new shoes and yardgoods, so she will be glad to go.
May 10, 1886
We left yesterday afternoon and took a slow pace to town for the sake of the new babies. Harland drove my wagon with me, Mama, April, and Clover and Joshua. Albert drove with Savannah and a canvas on the back so the baby girls are out of the sun and she can nurse in private.
We made camp by the south end of town, and I dressed in my best things today, although I had to let out my dress and put a long shawl over the back where it won’t close. We went by the asylum first and left messages and a box of things for Ulyssa, and then found a place to get Savannah some shoes.
Finally, it got close to twelve o’clock, so we finished our shopping and ate a bite, and drove to the fort where we all went inside. I asked the first man I could take hold of where I could find Captain Elliot, and he looked at me kind of odd, but said, well, up there on the podium, Ma’am, but you’ll have to sit in the audience until it’s over. I didn’t have a chance to ask him until what’s over, because a man in a uniform just covered with gold braid and shiny buttons stood up and held out his hands.
It was General Crook, I remembered him from the speech in town, and Jack was behind him. We found some seats as quick as we could, each of us holding a child on our knees. One of the twins began to fuss, and Savannah opened up her blouse and hushed that baby with a breast.
I could tell Jack was walking with a limp, but I don’t think anyone else noticed it. Then the General said some fancy words and it was hard to hear because he was facing Jack the whole time, and then he hung a medal on his chest, and called it The Congressional Medal of Honor, for bravery and exceptional action in the line of duty or some such. I wish there was some way I could recall all those big words and write them. Then there was another speech, and two other soldiers got medals too, and a woman dressed in a black dress and veil received a medal for her dead husband.
Next, there came some other talking, and the General read a long letter he called a commendation, and told Jack to stand again, and pronounced that he was no longer a Lieutenant, even though he is a private soldier, but has the rank of Captain. I have always thought of him as Captain Elliot though I know he has been a lieutenant for these last few years, but that is why the soldier at the gate looked odd, it was a secret from them until just now.
April stood on my knees when she saw him, and the crowd had just gotten quiet when she hollered That’s my Papa Jack! at the top of her lungs. I saw Jack break into a grin, and he tried to hide it while he saluted the General real smart, then turned to me and April, and gave us just a little salute off the tip of his hat too.
Pretty soon Savannah’s other baby started to cry, and she covered her chest with two babies and we fixed a shawl over her. The speeches were over, and some soldiers marched by in a formation, one of them playing a drum as they stepped. Then it was all over, and people stood up and began to wander around, talking to each other.
Captain Elliot, I said, touching his sleeve. Would you sit here by me for just a minute? Jack looked at me and tipped his hat to the folks he was talking to.
Yes, Mrs. Elliot? he said. Then he whispered so softly I wasn’t sure I heard it, You are a sight for sore eyes. I can’t wait to get you in my arms.
I just cleared my throat and tried to keep my face from glowing red. Well, Captain Elliot, I said, would it trouble you in the midst of all this military goings on, to shed the light on just what
has occurred here today? What is that medal for? They aren’t handing them out like penny candy, so you must have done something.
He looked away, kind of tired. Then he said real quiet, Ever notice how if you do something hare-brained and you fail, you’re an idiot, but if you succeed, you’re a hero?
I studied him and thought to myself then that I spend all my days trying not to do anything hare-brained in the first place.
May 21, 1886
Jack was home again today, and the weather is powerfully hot. We had an argument over nothing really, but he made me really mad, and so we are sitting on the porch in the heat, watching the sun go down, and it is the first time I know of he has been so cross that we just can’t talk.
He finally told me that he is going on another long campaign, and he said he was terribly sorry for acting so cross. The General says this time no one is going home until Geronimo is back on the reservation, or dead, or in prison. He will have a week off, then he has to go, and doesn’t know when he will be back. It may be all summer long, it may be after the baby comes. He is just tied in knots, he says.
Well, I think to myself, that he is a private soldier, he could just quit, or say No, I’m sitting this one out, but that doesn’t occur to him to say, so I’m not sure I will make the suggestion. At any rate, he is in a better humor and I am thankful for that. I’d rather be around Jack in a bad mood than most other men when they’re trying to pay me a compliment.
May 25, 1886
Just as I thought the day’s excitement was over, a strange and wondrous noise came to us over the hills. It was a cattle drive headed this way, and Jack saddled up quick and rode out to them, and stayed gone a long time. It was his Papa. Chess came himself, driving with about twenty men and two hundred and fifty head of fine cattle. So much to do.
May 26, 1886
He rode out of here early in the morning. I wanted to cry but instead I just told him he was the orneriest cuss I knew, leaving a pregnant wife with all those cowboys and a herd like that.
Well, Chess heard my words, and said, Miss Sarah, I had fully planned to stay a while, to help out and such, if you’d allow. So now I have two men sleeping in my parlor, and twenty more sleeping on the porch, and I can’t go to the outhouse without some man seeing, which I do so often with the baby pressing hard against my insides.
I waited until Jack rode away, and laid myself on my bed and just sobbed. Chess came to my door, and said, Don’t worry, he’ll be back, he always comes back.
I hate him, I cried. He doesn’t love me. He shouldn’t leave me. I hate him. Chess put his hand on my shoulder and I took hold of it. Oh, Chess, I love him so much it hurts! It’s not fair, men get to go off and chase around the country and get medals for doing stupid things and women get to sit home and worry.
Then I was done crying. Crying over that man is a waste of water. And I still have to go to the outhouse again.
May 29, 1886
Chess made me tell him all about the story Jack told of his winning that medal, and he seemed real proud, and didn’t once say what a fool stunt it was to ride that horse off a cliff over the top of them Indians’ heads and save that Federal Marshal and the two Army officers, one a major and one a captain. I think those men should have not got themselves into such a fix, but all he said was, Jack’s a hoot, ain’t he?
April is happy as a fat cat to have her Grandpa living with us. I had to scold her, and then I scolded him too, for just laughing at her naughtiness. I told him I wasn’t going to have such a bad girl, and that he should realize that she needed more than just love and petting, she needs a firm hand and a good backbone, or she’ll be an unhappy lady when she’s grown.
Chess said he saw the right in my words, and he will try.
July 1, 1886
A letter has come from Jack. They are standing off in the Chiricahua mountains, but see no sign of Geronimo surrendering. He must have plenty of squirrel, deer and water up there, but, he says, an Indian warrior can last through starvation and thirst like no white man ever thought about. Then he closes with Give my regards to Pop and the men and your Mama and the rest of the family, and, hug April from her new Papa. I miss you sorely and my anger grows daily toward this Geronimo that he keeps me away from you when you need me so much. At night when I see the stars I will be thinking always of you. Your devoted, JE.
July 4, 1886
Today Chess fixed a broken vane on the windmill, and Harland came over and climbed up to the top with him, and I don’t know who I was more scared for, the one too old to be up there or the one too young. Mama came over and said, Sarah, that Mr. Sherrill came to my house all gussied up and said he’d like to pay a call.
So I said, Well, what did you say to him?
She just looked curious, and said, I told him to sit a spell and have some watermelon with Harland and Melissa and me. And then he did.
Well, Mama, what did you expect? You told him to sit right down.
She said, Yes, but I didn’t think he would. What’s a man want with a old woman like me?
So we talked a long time about men and women, and Mason in particular, and she decided at first she wanted no more attention from Mr. Sherrill, but then when she got ready to go home, she asked me did I think he liked raisin cookies.
I am so glad to have Chess here. Mostly we get along fine, and he takes my mind off many worries. It’s too bad his son is not so inclined. We have had many fine talks, and along with Mr. Sherrill, this little ranch has turned again into a business.
August 26, 1886
A man I hardly know has ridden up to my front porch and let himself in and sat on my rocking chair looking thinned out and exhausted.
Jack, I said, Jack?
He just looked at me, and closed his eyes, and started talking fast. I can’t believe I made it, he said. Geronimo surrendered yesterday. I’m home. You’re still here. Lord, I’m tired. My horse is near dead, and my back feels like it broke in half a long ways back.
Suddenly, I reached over and felt his head, and he was burning up with a fever. Jack, you come get in bed, I told him, and I pulled on his arm.
No, he said, just let me rest a minute.
Well, I scolded him good then, and told him to get his ornery hide into bed and stop arguing with me because if he only came home to argue he could just mount up and ride away. He just looked at me and kind of grinned, and I could see it was my same old Jack, but his eyes looked red and glazed, and I could tell he was bad sick.
August 28, 1886
For two days Jack stayed in bed fighting a fever, and I can tell it is from not eating and sleeping out in the weather. He said in Mexico it has rained for three weeks almost without stopping, and about as bad as the flood we had here. Every night he went to bed wet and cold. At last he is ready to get up and his fever is gone.
Now he is back, and I feel like my arm or something has been missing and now is returned to me. It is a hard feeling to describe, it is like the smell after a rain, and a paper journal will not hold the feeling of it. And we are to have sixty days together, a long leave of absence, he calls it.
When we were alone, I told Jack that his Pop told me all about him going to the West Point Academy, and it wasn’t just any bend in a river either but a big, fancy school, and that I never thought he had gone to a college like that, and asked him why didn’t he say so to me?
He didn’t really have a good answer, except that he said it wasn’t such a big thing and he was just a fair student, not good at anything.
But, I said, You went to college! You have all that learning and all those fancy things and letters and such, it is so a big thing.
He started to ask me how was the windmill working and did I mind the bunkhouse the cattlemen had built for themselves and such.
I wonder if he really knows who I am, sometimes, and that I never in all my life have set foot in a schoolhouse, because I told him that but he wasn’t listening. Then I got to thinking maybe he is ashamed of me being ignorant, and th
e thought got bigger in my head all day long until it was all I could think about. The thought of him being ashamed of me stabbed me with every breath I took like it was a big thorn deep in my chest. It hurt so bad it hurt clear up into my jaw. Finally, just before supper I asked him those very words, Jack are you ashamed that I’m so ignorant?
He said to me, That was the only thing you ever have said that wasn’t smart, Sarah. In the first place, you aren’t ignorant, and in the second place…and then he just let the words wander off like whatever it was, was too much for him to say.
So I didn’t let it be, and I said, In the second place what?
In the second place, he said again, Education doesn’t keep a person from being a fool, and the lack of it doesn’t keep a person from being intelligent. Then he said no more about it, but I am thinking of those words and trying to figure out just what he meant.
April got a bad splinter in her foot, and we fussed for over an hour trying to get it out with her screaming at the top of her lungs. Finally, Jack held her tight and Pop had to cut her foot with a knife, but Pop managed to get out a ragged piece of ironwood as long as my fingernail. We bandaged her up, and then Jack held her and rocked her to sleep, even though I wanted her. Jack said No, you get to hold her all the time, this is my turn.
So I watched my baby girl cuddle in his lap and go to sleep. After he put her in bed, he said, How’s our second one? and patted on my belly.
These Is My Words: The Diary of Sarah Agnes Prine, 1881-1901 Page 29