The Diary Of Mattie Spenser (3 page)

We had been married nearly a week before we pulled out. Though we were early astir, Mother, Father, and my three sisters and two brothers were there to see us off. They slept only a few hours before rising for chores and hurrying to the Spensers’ place, where Luke and I were nearly ready to embark on our adventure. I miss the folks dreadfully already, especially the girls, as we were always a merry group—and Carrie, too. She begged me not to forget her, and she said if we did not meet again in this life, we would surely be together in the next. Luke frowned when I pointed to the ground, meaning Hell, but Carrie and I broke into fits of the giggles.

As we started off, my youngest sister, Jemima, who is six, ran after the wagon, crying for her “sugar.” Luke stopped, but I could see he was vexed at doing it. So I let her love my neck and gave her the briefest of kisses. She had to content herself with waving us out of sight and shouting, “Ho for Colorado!”

Luke did not scold her, however. I suppose it was because his mama carried on more than anyone, clutching him and begging him not to go. Mother Spenser wailed that she would never see her boy again, which suits me. He is the apple of her eye, and I know she is not pleased that Luke chose me for a wife. I know so because she told me herself, saying I was too headstrong. My husband will miss her, but not I. Luke’s father is a quiet old gentleman, and the wife is the rooster in the hen roost.

I received my first word of praise from my husband at our first campfire supper, and many since. Luke pronounced me a fine camp cook, although at the end of the day, I think he is so tired and hungry, he could eat a roasted wagon wheel. He does not know that most of what we’ve eaten was cooked before we left and packed away. Still, if I may say so myself, my campfire biscuits are quite tasty and not a bit scorched. A lady who is camped near to us today tells me that out on the prairie, where wood is scarce, I will have to cook with “buffalo chips,” which are the dung of the bison. She advises me to look for the dry ones, saying they will make a white-hot fire. Well, not I! We’ll eat our biscuits raw before I stoop to that. I resolve to keep a sharp lookout for firewood along the trail.

One concession I have made to travel is to hem my skirts a good two inches above what is proper in Fort Madison, and I spent my first evening at campfire with my needle. As I generally travel by shank’s mare during the day, my skirts, if left long, would quickly wear out from being dragged through the dirt. Luke taught me the army trick of coating the insides of my cotton stockings with soap to keep from getting blisters.

Now that the terrible War of the Rebellion is done (and our hero, the martyred Mr. Lincoln, cold in his grave), many soldiers are moving west, both Unionists who are looking to improve their situations, and Rebels, who have lost all and must begin again. The Homestead Act, which allows each man 160 acres for a small fee after he lives on it for five years (Union soldiers may count their years of enlistment toward that goal), allows all a fresh start. I think we have a wise government.

Still, not everyone we meet is going to Colorado. Some are returning, telling us the territory is a fraud. We camped beside a family traveling home to Ohio. They had “Pikes Peak or Bust” on the cover of their wagon, which they had crossed out and replaced with “Busted by Golly.” Luke says these “go-backs” are not so numerous as in the early days, when gold-seekers went west with wheelbarrows to pick up rich nuggets. The family seemed very poor, with only crackers soaked in water for their supper, so I shared with them a fresh peach pie, brought from home—the first they’d tasted in over a year. The man said he would starve before he ever ate another dried apple pie, and he taught us this ditty:

I loathe, abhore, detest, and despise

Abominate dried apple pies.

Give me the toothache or sore eyes

Instead of your stinking dried apple pies.

Ho for Colorado!

May 29, 1865. Overland Trail, Missouri. Two hundred ten miles west from Fort Madison.

We go like the wind! Twenty-one miles yesterday, nineteen today. Even the birds do not fly so fast. At this rate, we shall be there before we start. We measure the distance by use of a clever brass instrument called an odometer, which is attached to the wheel of the wagon. Luke says in the early crossings, emigrants tied a kerchief to the wheel and counted its revolutions, then multiplied that number by the circumference of the wheel, thereby determining the daily distance. Keeping track of the kerchief would make me dizzy and cause me to fall out of the wagon, I think.

So far, it has been good roads and good weather, inspiring us to name last night’s stopping place “Camp Comfort.” Luke says things will not be so nice once we leave Missouri. Enjoy the trees now, says Husband, because they will not last. Fine, I say, for pleasing to me are meadows and a far view.

Every meal is a picnic. We eat breakfast around the campfire. Dinner is served in the shade of our wagon. For the evening meal, I spread a gutta-percha cloth on the ground and lay it with the remaining food prepared at home. Last night was so warm, I prepared only a cold supper. But I unpacked two of our good plates and served slices of Carrie’s groom’s cake for dessert to celebrate our three-week anniversary. I have become very economical, using leftover biscuit dough from the supper to bake a pone during breakfast, which we eat at our nooning.

We pass many fine farms and kind people, who sell us fresh milk and butter. One afternoon, whilst Luke repaired a wheel, a farmer stopped plowing and offered his help. Then his wife brought a pitcher of refreshing well water. They are recently married themselves. Since she was new to the country, with few friends there, she begged us to stay to supper and to camp in their barnyard, but Luke replied we must be on our way. I asked pertly what difference did an afternoon make, but Luke looked at me sternly. Then the wife and I exchanged knowing glances. I did promise to obey him, but, O, will I ever learn to hold my tongue?

On the whole, Luke is the most indulgent of husbands. He stopped once to pick me a nosegay of wild daisies, knowing they are my favorites. When he wasn’t looking, I plucked off one daisy’s petals to see if he loves me, and I was rewarded for destroying the flower with the knowledge that “he loves me not!”

Luke does not raise his voice, and he finds fault but seldom. He is punctual as a clock, works harder than any man I ever knew, even Father, and keeps himself clean, for which I am thankful. I couldn’t abide a smelly old bachelor of a husband. He insists that we observe the Seventh Day, though I think that is mostly so the fagged beasts can rest. I observe the sanctity of the Sabbath by scrubbing our clothes and straightening the wagon and baking as much as I can for the week ahead.

I also clean myself as well as I can, for we get very dirty. I washed my hair the day before our wedding and keep it braided tight, so there is no need to wash it again until we are settled. It is said there is no Sunday west of Missouri. I hope that is not so, for I look forward to a proper day of rest and worship each week after we reach our new home.

I realize now I knew little about this husband of mine when I accepted his proposal. Marry in haste, repent at leisure, the saying goes, although that isn’t what I mean. I am not the least bit sorry I said yes to Luke, but I think I was not very well prepared. Luke smiles but does not laugh at my little jokes, and he detests being teased. When I made eyes at him once, he told me it was not becoming of a married woman to flirt, even with her own husband.

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!”