The Diary Of Mattie Spenser (18 page)

Sister Mary has written the particulars of Mother’s death, which was not unexpected, for she scarcely moved from her bed after the loss of the last baby. She asked the girls to keep her illness from me, as there was nothing I could do for her, and she did not want me to take sick with worry. While Mother’s body wasted, her mind was as keen as ever, and she knew I would press Carrie for her true state. So on Carrie’s visit, the girls endeavored to show Mother in the best light. Mary begs me to forgive their deception, as it was Mother’s wish that I not know. Besides, Mother enjoyed the game, believing her efforts kept me from fretting. Had I known of her illness, Mother believed, I would have insisted on returning to Fort Madison last spring, and that would have been a trial for both Self and Johnnie.

She was right, of course, since I would have given birth on the prairie, but would that have been such a bad thing? With the ease of my parturition, Johnnie could have made his appearance in the morning, we would have been on the trail after noon, and Mother would have had the satisfaction of beholding both her daughter and grandson.

February 12, 1867. Prairie Home.

I sorrow for Mother so, and when I give way to grief, I cry not only for her but for Sallie and the German settlers and those poor emigrants who were killed in the Indian attack. The tears run afresh when I think of Father, who was so devoted to the noblest of life’s companions. I am unable to do my work and so neglect both Husband and Son. Luke rebuked me yesterday for forgetting to bathe Johnnie. I have been disagreeable of late and replied harshly for the first time in our marriage, saying if we did not live in a sod house with a dirt floor, Johnnie would not need to be bathed so frequently. I regretted my outburst instantly, knowing I had wounded Luke, for he does the best he can for us. He fears I shall sink into melancholia, and at times, I, too, fear for my mental state. Then I rouse myself for the sake of the little family that needs me. When Luke returned from chores, he found a jelly cake for his supper.

February 18, 1867. Prairie Home.

Necessity forced Luke to go to Mingo today, but my dearest husband made a detour by the Earley place and asked Tom to call, as Tom’s visits cheer me. Tom brought with him a cunning eggshell, which is mottled and as finely colored as if it were made of marble. I roused myself from self-pity to take part in our old bantering ways, saying I did not know if I could accept a gift from a gentleman who had not first asked permission of my husband to give it to me. Tom replied, that being the case, he would take it back along with Mr. Whitman’s capital book, and the next shell he found would go to Johnnie. We laughed at the idea of Johnnie’s little hands making quick work of the fragile present. I think it is the first time I have laughed since the news of Mother’s crossing.

February 24, 1867. Prairie Home.

We are to go to Denver City! Luke returned from Mingo last week with the news that he had made plans to attend an agricultural conference in Denver and that Baby and I might go along. Luke is the most generous of husbands, and I vow to put sorrow behind me and be the gayest possible companion so that he will not regret his invitation. Already the excitement has lifted my spirits, and I go an hour or more without giving way to sadness. I know Mother would approve, as she believed grieving was an unbecoming state. I cannot help but think that she has had a hand in this turn of events.

There are so many decisions to be made, since Luke will allow me to take only my small wedding trunk, the one in which I hide this journal. At first, I laid out several dresses, but as there is no room for them, I will limit my costumes to two—a sensible suit for traveling and the navy China silk that was my wedding dress; it will make an appropriate mourning gown. I can enhance its plainness with my breast pin and purchase a lace collar in Denver to dress it up. I wish I had paid more attention to the way Persia trimmed her hats, since she is always in the latest style. Do the ladies today wear their hats wide or close to their faces, lavishly trimmed or simple? Luke would not want to be accompanied by a woman who is out of fashion, but I suppose that in Denver, so far from civilization, few women are dressed with much style. I shall pack Luke’s wedding vest, and when he puts it on, he will be the handsomest man in Denver. But he would be that on any account.

March 4, 1867. Denver City.

O, I shall be glad when the transcontinental railroad is completed, though it has been so long since I have seen an engine, I think I should run from it in fright. We left Mingo for our great adventure in a stage. Lordy, it was the dirtiest and most uncomfortable conveyance I have ever seen. The cushions on the board seats were ripped to shreds. The floor was covered with mud and tobacco stains, and the side curtains were so tattered that they kept out neither wind nor rain. But I was not to be deterred from enjoyment of the trip, and so upon entering, I overlooked the state of the vehicle, turning my attention to our companions instead. Alas, this brilliant group appeared to be little better than the coach.

Three men sat across from us. At one end was a gambler from the Southern states, judging from his manner of speaking. He was dressed in a dirty white shirt, and while his coat was expensive, it was as ragged as our traveling compartment, the velvet collar shiny with wear. He proffered a deck of cards, but upon discovering there were no suckers amongst us, he rested his head against the window and slept.

Next to the other window, opposite Luke, sat a large, fierce man with yellow teeth, and not many of them, who told us his name was Wilson. This giant of a man wore a buffalo coat, and with his shaggy beard and windy stomach, he resembled a bison in more than dress. He had a familiar manner, which I have not gotten used to in this country, and he informed me the coat weighed more than I did. From its depths, he drew a bottle, which he cheerfully held out to all, and he was not offended when it was greeted with no more enthusiasm than his neighbor’s cards.

Squeezed between these two unsavory characters was a young man with clean features and mild manner. He informed us he was a professor from Maine on his way to Denver to seek a position. It was his belief that with so many giving up their professions to prospect for gold, he would encounter a great shortage of teachers, and, therefore, he was confident he would be well compensated for his work.

I enjoyed talking with the young man, whose name was Slade, as he was familiar with the news from the States, and his intelligent conversation helped pass the time as well as divert me from the unsavory sounds and smells coming from the others. Without asking my permission, Mr. Wilson lit an enormous cigar, which was offensive to both Johnnie and Self, and I hoped Luke would request that he put it out. As I did not know the manners of a Colorado omnibus, however, I dared not ask Luke to intervene, and so I reached into my purse (the dear little bag Carrie embroidered for me) for my handkerchief, intending to fan the foul air away from Baby.

It was then that I discovered the theft of my breast pin. Prior to entering the carriage, I had checked to make sure it was pinned to the lining of my purse. So I knew it had not fallen out of its own accord. Immediately, I announced the disappearance of the precious object, looking at Mr. Wilson as I did so, for I knew him to be the culprit.

Instead of producing the object, however, the “buffalo” turned to Mr. Slade and said, “Best to empty your pockets, hoss.” I thought this to be a diversion, for I knew Mr. Slade to be innocent, but Luke touched my arm in a manner that silenced me. With great protestations, Mr. Slade did as he was told, revealing a great many interesting objects, but none of them belonged to me. Satisfied that he had proved himself guiltless, Mr. Slade gathered up the items, but Mr. Wilson was not to be satisfied. He reached inside the accused’s coat, ripped out the breast pocket, and my precious brooch fell onto the floor. Then shouting a command to the driver to stop the coach, Mr. Wilson ordered the miscreant out of the carriage and told him he could walk to Denver—or to perdition. When last seen, he was trudging along the road behind us.

We learnt then that my protector was a confectioner who hoped to set up shop in Denver. Mr. Wilson hails from Wapello, just up the Mississippi from Fort Madison, and we spent several pleasant hours discussing the old home state, even discovering we had mutual friends. O, when shall I learn not to judge the book by the cover?

We have made our arrival in Denver, but as Baby demands to be fed and Luke is due back here at our hotel room at any moment, I shall write of that later.

March 6, 1867. Denver City.

Denver is the rawest and ugliest town I ever saw, but I am much taken with its bustle and sense of purpose. One cannot step outside without having the senses assaulted. The streets are filled with inebriated men, who sleep where they fall after their nightly rounds. When they awake, why, they begin again, and are drunk by breakfast. Denverites pay them not the least attention.

Tradespeople yell their wares as loud as fishmongers. So do proprietors of theaters and magic-lantern shows. The wind carries sounds from the saloons in every direction. There are shouts of teamsters and exhortations by fire-eating street preachers. I even heard the squeal of a pig as a butcher chased it down the street. Shortly after our arrival, when Luke, Johnnie, and I strolled the main street, which is called Larimer, we saw a minstrel show right out in the open. The darkies sang the new favorite, “Michael, Row the Boat Ashore,” and passed the hat. I myself contributed a two-cent piece, others giving more, until the performers had collected over a dollar for a few minutes’ entertainment. No wonder no one works in this place.

All are after easy riches. We passed a man who had set bars of soap on a box and was asking a dollar for each one. “Come and try your luck. One in three has a five-dollar bill,” he called. Easy ciphering would have told the crowd that the claim could not be, for that meant the hawker lost two dollars for every three bars sold, not to mention his cost of the soap. I was the only doubter, however, for the man did a brisk business.

After a time, when none of the buyers discovered themselves to be the recipients of large bills, the crowd held back. Then a man who had been watching stepped forward and put down his coin, unwrapped the soap, and held up a five-dollar note, loudly proclaiming his easy winnings. At that, the rabble surged forward, demanding to be allowed to try their luck again. Luke says the fortunate man was a confederate of the soap-selling blackleg and bought a marked bar to tempt the crowd.

The cry all about is “Gold!” Every second store offers prospecting outfits for such outrageous sums that one would have to find a rich strike just to pay for the provisioning. A man approached us with an offer to sell us the map to a lost gold mine.

“If you know its location, why don’t you mine it yourself?” asked Luke. Knowing logic was not in his favor, the seller did not even answer, but turned to another, who, in short order, took out his pocketbook and handed over a sum of money.

At every corner, there is talk of which mine is a “bonanza” and which a “borrasca.” Even women discuss nothing but gold, chattering like magpies about whether a camp is promising or “played out” with as much familiarity as if they were talking of hat pins.

I had thought to get away from the subject at our hotel, but no, the first woman whose acquaintance I made, a Mrs. Chubb, told me her husband was touring the mining towns in search of investment, and that as he represented a wealthy syndicate, it would be worth my while to pass along to her any intelligence I had of a promising “play.” Despite that unseemly introduction, I have become very fond of Mrs. Chubb. She is a jolly, fleshy woman who spends her time reading romantic novels. She said she had been unable to cure herself of the vice and feared it would excite her passions unduly, but I replied I thought the greater harm in novels was exciting the purse.

We are stopping at the West Lindell, a large plain building with verandas. It is not so nice as the Kaston House in Fort Madison, but it suits us, even if the price does not. The clerk attempted to extort $1.50 per day (and that without our meals!), acting as if it were a trifle. Luke offered him five dollars for four days, which amount the usurer was happy to accept. I think even that is excessive. The hotel is famous for its third-floor roof garden, which Mrs. Chubb had heard was very fine. She herself had not seen it, however, as she feared she would faint at the height and fall into the street. I made the journey up the flights of stairs so I could get a clearer view of the mountains, which first I glimpsed from the stagecoach. They appeared then a little like a fringe of dirty lace on a petticoat, to my great disappointment, as I had thought they would be grand as the pictures I have seen of the Alps. The view from the West Lindell did not change my first impression of these peaks, and I find them to be greatly overrated. As they are a considerable impediment to travel, I believe Colorado Territory would be better off if it were entirely flat.

Our room is well appointed and clean, which Mrs. Chubb says was a rarity in Denver just a few years ago. When first she visited the city, she stayed in the Eldorado, a log hut operated by a French count, a near relative of the Emperor Napoleon, it was claimed. Notwithstanding that, the place was a hovel, distinguished only by a flag made from “Mrs. Count’s” red petticoat.

Our accommodations at the West Lindell are far finer than that. Still, the room contains one object that causes me distress, and that is a large mirror. I thought I recognized the face that stared back at me from its depths but could not be sure, for I have not seen her in two years, and though familiar, she is much changed. When Luke was away, I took time to study her at leisure, not from vanity but curiosity, as I want to see what Colorado and the birth of a son have done to her form. She appears far more than two years older than when last seen. She is still much too gaunt for my taste, though she is wider in hips and waist. Her face, to put the best light on it, has more purpose than youth. The cheekbones are still too prominent, and despite her concession to the sunbonnet, her skin is no longer rosy, but a pale brown. I suppose none of that surprises me, but I was horrified to discover a streak of gray the width of my little fingernail in her hair. Before I came to Colorado, I never had a single gray hair. Now, I think I shall be white at thirty.