The Diary Of Mattie Spenser (25 page)

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 fear 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 lovingly 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?

The folks stayed only a little while following the ceremony, for it was a blizzardy day. The Smiths were the last to leave but Tom and Mr. Bondurant, and as Mr. Smith picked up the reins, Missus settled herself in the wagon and turned to me with what I believed would be a final word of comfort. Instead, she said, “He’d be amongst us now if not for the Lord’s vengeance. He punishes the son for the sins of the father.”

She saw my confusion and added, “Keeping a little tyke in the cold like that just to wait for the woman. I seen it myself, and I knowed Mr. Spenser to be a sinner, even if he didn’t leave in the conveyance with her, as most thought he would.”

I was thunderstruck at her words. But I was determined to keep a quiet face, depriving Missus of the satisfaction of knowing her gossip had hit the mark. For the instant the words were spoken, I knew how Luke and Johnnie had spent those long hours. Luke had taken Johnnie to see Persia, who must have come to Mingo on the stage. Luke had kept my poor boy in the cold wagon as they waited for her to arrive. Then slowly I felt a sense of horror slip over me as I remembered the quantity of clothing Luke had taken for both of them. No, Luke had not gone merely to see Persia. He had intended to run off with her, and to take Johnnie with him! I knew it as surely as I knew my son was dead. At that moment, as I stood by the grave of my little boy, I knew that Luke did not love me, that he had never loved me. It was Persia he had always cared for and wanted, and he had made up his mind to have her. And he had planned to steal Johnnie from me and give him to her, to leave me alone in this house on the prairie while he and Persia stole off like thieves with my boy. O, Luke was right to blame himself for Johnnie’s death. His perfidy killed our son.