"West to Laramie" [PG] - 4/4

Part 4 – The conclusion of a series of letters from a Philadelphia matron and her companion during their journey to the Pre-Civil War West. 


"WEST TO LARAMIE”

Chapter 4

May 10, 1860

Mrs. Elizabeth Evans
64 Anderson Road
Falmouth, MA

Dear Cousin Elizabeth,

How is your family? You should receive the last letter I had written to you from Fort Kearny within a few weeks. But so much has happened that I decided to write another.

Since leaving the Fort, the trip has become even more miserable. The weather remains hot and windy. A pale-colored dust called alkali continues to blow in our faces. Gnats take every opportunity to bite us. And we still have to contend with the constant verbosity of Mr. Hornbottom. The gambler, Mr. McEvers, once asked him to stop talking. Mr. Hornbottom actually managed to do so for one hour.

We have stopped at least two of these home stations where we ate and rested, while the horses were being changed. We have slept at three of these stations since the beginning of our trip. What wretched hives they have turned out to be! The beds barely seemed stable and are infested with bugs. The meals usually consisted of rancid meat (usually bacon) and fried corn dodgers. However, at least one of these home stations did provide satisfactory service. But I do find myself longing for Fort Kearny or anywhere east of Kansas.

At the first home station west of Fort Kearny, a Mr. William Duff joined our stagecoach. A former trapper and wagon train guide, he plans to head for Virginia City and prospect for silver in the Nevada mines. To our surprise, he turned out to be an old friend of Mr. Wright, the shotgun rider. Mr. Duff spent his first day riding with Mr. Kolp and Mr. Wright on top. The following day, he switched places with Captain Pearson (thank goodness). He turned out to be a lively companion. Unfortunately, he also possesses an offensive body odor. Practically everyone inside the coach had no choice but to cover their noses with handkerchiefs in order to breath. 

Two days following our departure from Kearny, we had encountered a ferocious thunderstorm. Mr. McEvers’ mistress went into hysterics and at one point, opened the door and tried to jump out of the coach. Fortunately, Mr. McEvers and Captain Pearson (who had rejoined us inside) managed to settle her back into her seat. It seems the ”lady” has a fear of thunderstorms dating from an incident during childhood. Before the storm finally subsided, the coach had found itself stuck in a quagmire of mud. We were forced to step outside and endure the last twenty minutes of the storm, while the men attempted to pry the coach loose. One of those Pony Express riders, a skinny young fellow with lanky brown hair and buckskins, stopped to offer his help. He and the other men finally managed to pry the coach loose from the mud after the storm subsided.

We reached another home station for a supper break within a few hours. Horrid as usual. The place – or more accurately, hovel – looked as if it could barely remain erect. The landscape looked flat and desolate. The stationmaster, a morose fellow with missing teeth, spent most of his time grunting orders to his two colored workers. His wife, an overweight slattern, prepared overcooked beans, bacon and greasy corn dodgers. Unfortunately for Mrs. Middleton, she found the meal unsettling and had to rush outside before her food could come back up. Later that evening, I had walked around the station for some fresh air in my own attempt to recover from the meal. One of the colored handymen, a tall fellow in his mid-thirties made lewd advances toward me. The other handyman, the only decent person on that station, attempted to intervene on my behalf. Before this gallant man could do so, I came to my own defense and let the lecherous pest know that I was the wrong woman to fool around with. There is nothing, I believe, like a good kick below the belt to teach a person a valuable lesson.

The next day, we passed the first of rock formations on this trail – Courthouse Rock. I swear Elizabeth, it looked as if it had been constructed by man himself. Mr. Hornbottom claimed that it strongly resembled the old courthouse in St. Louis. Our coach has now stopped near another monument called Chimney Rock. This formation bears a strong resemblance to a large, craggy tower twisting toward the sky. The reason I am able to write this letter is that we have come across a band of Indians traveling from the south. At first sight, Mr. McEvers drew out his revolver in order to shoot. But Mr. Duff stopped this act of folly in time. According to the former trapper, the Indians had given a sign of peace.

There are five of them – three men and two women. Two of the men are tall. All are muscular and gaunt-looking. They wear muslin shirts and buckskin trousers or leggings colorfully decorated with beads. The women, who are attractive, wear doeskin dresses decorated with tassels and a wide ornamental belt. According to Mr. Duff, they belong to the Ogalalla Sioux tribe. All five are on horseback and on their way to Fort Laramie. The coach stopped in order to allow Mr. Duff to converse with the newcomers. He informed us that the Indians have asked to accompany the coach to Laramie. Mr. McEvers, his mistress Lucy and Mr. Hornbottom have all objected. Captain Pearson remained silent and both Mr. Kolp and Mr. Wright have given their consent.

In a few minutes, we shall resume our journey. The traveling party now consists of five Ogalalla Sioux Indians and the usual and now nervous passengers. I have no idea how Mrs. Middleton feels about our new companions. Personally, I see no reason for us to be apprehensive. The Sioux seem friendly and there are only five of them. As for the others, it never fails to surprise me how some people can be so easily frightened by the presence of others considered different. Some things never change. Good-bye for now. You shall hear from me, once we reach Fort Laramie.

Your loving cousin,

Patricia North


============================================================ 


May 14, 1860

Mrs. Adalaide Middleton Taylor
231 Green Street
Philadelphia, PA

Dear Addie,

This journey has been the most tedious and uncomfortable I have ever experienced. Except for the last day. I hope that I will never have to endure what I had experienced yesterday. All I can say is thank goodness it will be a while before Patricia and I will resume our journey back East.

Four days ago, a small group of Sioux Indians had joined our coach near an earth formation called Chimney Rock to travel with to Laramie. Personally, I found them to be a barbarous and colorful group. After our journey had resumed, we passed an imposing rock formation called Scott’s Bluff. I have never seen anything like this for it resembled a walled city. 

Fifty miles later, we came upon another home station. Thankfully, this station – like a previous one we had encountered nearly a week ago – not only served decent meals, but had a stoic man named Fox and his family as competent stationmasters. If only other home stations along the route could be this satisfactory. Mr. Fox warned us to be on the lookout for a band of outlaws operating in the area. I do not believe that any of us had bothered to pay attention to his warning. We were more apprehensive of our red companions.

Around noon, the following day, the three male Indians went ahead to hunt for game and left their two women behind with us. Mr. McEvers began spouting that the men had left to ”fetch their red brethren in order to massacre the lot of us”. Both Mr. Duff and Mr. Wright scoffed at the idea, pointing out that the Sioux had left behind their women. However, the rest of the passengers and I agree with Mr. McEvers – Patricia being the exception. She regarded the rest of us with scorn, but remained silent. The coach ended up being attacked after all. Thirty minutes after the Sioux men left, the very outlaws that Mr. Fox had warned us about, swooped upon the stagecoach from an isolated patch of woods, situated below a low ridge. Within minutes, they had rifles trained on us.

They were nine outlaws. Their leader, a shifty-eyed short man on a bay roan ordered two of his men to grab the Sioux women - "for some fun later", he had remarked. His words made my blood chill thinking of the fate of those poor women. The leader then ordered our men to throw down their weapons. As Mr. Hornbottom started to comply, three shots rang out, killing three of the bandits. The outlaws became confused as more shots followed. Another bandit fell dead. Ahead, the three Sioux men galloped toward us, releasing horrendous war cries. The bandits attempted to escape the red men’s attack, but our men took the opportunity to join in the fray. Both Captain Pearson and Mr. Duff managed to climb out of the coach, while bullets flew in all directions. We women did our best to remain out of the line of fire by crouching in our seats. Rather difficult to accomplish in full skirts One bandit aimed his rifle at Patricia, when Captain Pearson blocked his line of fire and received a bullet in the temple. Both Patricia and myself found ourselves in a state of shock when we realized that the Army officer had given his life to save hers.

Less than eight minutes later, the gun battle finally ceased. One of the bandits managed to escape. Two other bandits fell dead – including the leader. Another two became our prisoners. One prisoner turned out to be the very fellow who had killed Captain Pearson. He was seriously injured. One of the Sioux women had been injured in the shoulder. Mr. Wright and Mr. Duff slung Captain Pearson’s body over a horse and tied the latter behind the coach. We resumed our journey until we came upon another home station. There, Captain Pearson’s killer died. And the good captain’s body was buried.

Patricia and I are still in shock over Captain Pearson’s sacrifice. Perhaps both of us should have realized that he had been the type who would defend anyone he felt it was his duty to do so – despite any bigotry on his part. This reminded me of those brave Sioux Indians who had come to our rescue. How ironic! We had been so concerned with their presence that we did not take heed of Mr. Fox’s warning about the outlaws. And the Sioux turned out to be our rescuers.

It took us eighteen hours upon leaving the last home station to reach Fort Laramie. Both Robert and Penelope were at the stage depot to greet us. The wounded Indian woman went to the infirmary and Mr. Kolp informed the fort’s commander about Captain Pearson’s death and the location of his body. The remaining outlaw was arrested by troopers and sent to the jailhouse. I can only assume that he will swing from a rope within a few days for his part in the attempted robbery and the captain’s death. Some officer offered the Army’s appreciation to the Sioux for their rescue. Yet, he seemed to be rather cool about it – as if he did not want to forget that he considered them his enemies. I also detected this attitude amongst the other military personnel – including Robert, I am sorry to say. Patricia, myself and the other passengers were more appreciative toward our rescuers. They had saved our hides, after all.

Three new passengers boarded the stagecoach, while Patricia, Mr. Hornbottom and I said our good-byes to the remaining travelers. As the coach resumed its journey west, Patricia turned around and remarked that it seemed a shame there was no chance of a railroad being built in time for our trip back east. Both Robert and Penelope merely treated her remark as a joke. I believe Patricia was being serious. I certainly felt the same. 

Dearest Addie! The West is such a complex place. Yes, it has its physical beauties. But it so different and stark . . . so incredibly harsh in compare to the East. It is beyond my understanding. Why on earth would anyone want to settle here? There is still good farmland back East. My love to you and Harold and I hope to see you again by early September.

I love you always,

Mother


THE END

"West to Laramie" [PG] - 3/4

Part 3– The third part in a series of letters from a Philadelphia matron and her companion during their journey to the Pre-Civil War West. 


"WEST TO LARAMIE”

Chapter 3


May 3, 1860

Mrs. Adelaide Taylor
231 Green Street
Philadelphia, PA

Dear Addie,

Patricia and I have arrived at this small prairie town in the Kansas Territory. Our coach stopped for a few minutes to retrieve mail and other packages. The sooner we are on our way, the better. Stagecoach travel has proved to be quite unbearable. You cannot imagine how I long to be at Fort Laramie by now. Being here in Kansas has reminded me of the violent outbreaks over slavery that has tainted this part of the country, recently. I fear that some Missouri border ruffians or Kansas Jayhawkers might descend upon our coach and harass us before we can leave the territory.

Addie my love, whoever said that stagecoach traveling would be comfortable was either the greatest charlatan on this earth or worse, a drunk. No reflection upon your brother, but we must remember that he has been blind with love for nearly a year. I should really listen to Patricia more often.

I must say that the land here in Kansas seem quite impressive – at least visually. The eastern part of the territory resembled Missouri with its green woods and expansive plains filled with tall grass that swayed like graceful dancers. Eventually, the land became flat as a pancake with hardly a stem of grass or flowers in sight. An occasional tree or prairie animal would break the monotony of the open wide spaces. Thank goodness for the bright orange that glows across the western skyline when the sun descends for the night.

Right now, I am sure you are asking - ”What is Mother complaining about?” Well, there is this series of elements that seem bent upon assaulting my face – namely the wind, dust, heat and insects. Rocks and other objects of this so-called“road” cause the coach to bump and sway over long periods of time. It had taken me nearly three hours to recover from a case of maldemere, after our departure from St. Joseph. The coach leaves very little room for passengers. There are only six of us, inside the vehicle – including three females who did not have the sense to don narrower skirts for this journey. Patricia and I have the best seats – right behind the front boot, facing backward. We can see the backs of two men seated in the coach’s most uncomfortable spots. 

The passengers come from an extremely interesting selection of humanity. First, there is Mr. Atticus Hornbottom (trust me, I am not making this up), a whiskey drummer from St. Louis. This rotund and balding man wears a horrid checked suit and spends most of his time either talking about himself or snooping into the background of other passengers. He sells whiskey to various Army and trading posts throughout the Plains. He is also destined for Fort Laramie. 

Another passenger happens to be Captain Jonas Pearson, an Army officer destined for Fort Hall, which is further west of Laramie. After Mr. Hornbottom managed to coerce that bit of information from him, the good Captain kept to himself. It took the subject of the violence here in Kansas raised by Mr. Hornbottom for Captain Pearson to finally speak again. He declared that the Jayhawkers were to blame for the troubles here in Kansas. This prompted Patricia to declare that the Missouri border men were also not exempt from blame. She also accused the bordermen of attempting to vote in a pro-slavery constitution by fraudulent means. The captain did not take kindly to such an outburst – especially from a colored woman. The two have been exchanging dark looks ever since. By the way, Captain Pearson hails from Georgia.

Sitting against the rear boot is a flashy-looking couple that consist of a gentleman (I use this word in the broadest sense) named Reese McEvers and an overdressed woman with gold curls named Lucy. By the look of his clothes and dark hair slicked back with Madagascar oil, Mr. McEvers must be a professional gambler or a distributor of women’s favors. As for his golden-curled companion, Mr. McEvers claimed that she is his wife. Yet, I saw no wedding ring on her finger. Curious. 

Our ”jehu” or driver is Mr. Kolp, a no-nonsense type who is all business. Every now and then, he encourages the horses on with cries of "Ha!” or ”Giddap there!”. Riding shotgun is a Mr. Harvey Wright, a former muleteer who is as talkative as Mr. Hornbottom. Unlike the whiskey-drummer, we rarely have the chance to listen to his talk. Except at way stations and stops such as this place. I would love to continue this letter, but we are about depart. Writing in a jostling stagecoach is virtually impossible. Give my love to Harold for me.

I love you always, 

Mother

P.S. I will write another letter when we reach Fort Kearny, near the Platte River.


===================================================== 


May 6, 1860

Mrs. Elizabeth Evans
64 Anderson Road
Falmouth, MA

Dear Cousin Elizabeth,

We have finally reached Fort Kearny in the Nebraska Territory late this afternoon and will not depart until tomorrow, due to certain complications. The coach’s left axle wheel (or whatever) was in danger of loosening. Mr. Kolp, our driver, ordered us out of the coach and we were forced to walk the last twelve miles to the fort. Once inside, Mr. Kolp informed us that the axle should be repaired by tomorrow morning.

Both Mrs. Middleton and I were at first relieved to be outside that stuffy coach. Sitting inside with four other passengers became quite unbearable. The prairie winds had covered everyone’s faces with layers of dust. Do you remember that Army captain from Georgia that I had written about in my last letter? Well, I find it amusing that the captain’s face now closely resembles mine. What delicious irony. But after walking eight miles, we found ourselves missing that coach a great deal. My pair of sturdy shoes was nearly ruined by the time we reached the fort.

Fort Kearny is one of the many forts that station the Army’s First Calvary (the same regiment that Robert Middleton serve) on the Great Plains. Named after Philip Kearney, a Mexican War army officer, it is situated near the Platte River. And what a dismal looking body of water the Platte is! The Missouri and Ohio Rivers are beautiful and even the Mississippi River possesses a certain magnificence. But the Platte? Good Lord! I have never looked upon a more turgid stream of water in my life.

The fort’s commander was kind enough to offer Mrs. Middleton, Mr. McEvers’ mistress (wife indeed!) and myself the guest rooms. For which I am eternally grateful! The men accepted room in the enlisted men’s barracks. For one evening, we have walking space to stretch our legs and comfortable beds to sleep upon. I do not have much to say about the fort. It is merely a collection of adobe, sod and wooden buildings that include the kitchen, the stables for the horses, one for the sutler (civilian trader for the military), two dining rooms, a recreation hall, a billiard’s room, barracks for the enlisted troopers and living quarters for the officers. All of these buildings surround a central parade ground. Yet, the fort lacks fortified walls.

This evening, we dined on an edible meal (the only one we will have, I suspect, until Fort Laramie) that consisted of pheasant, roasted potatoes, sage stuffing, beans and salt pork, garden vegetables, sourdough bread and a dried apple pie. The memory of that meal still lingers. Afterwards, the wife of a junior office sang ”Listen to the Mockingbird” and other selections for our entertainment. She has a sweet voice, but not as strong as your Charlotte’s. She also struck me as a poor, delicate creature. I suspect that she will not last very long on the frontier. Her husband, in my opinion, apparently lacked the sense and compassion to realize that she needs to be sent back East. Preferably with relations or friends. Or perhaps he cannot afford to do so. It would be a shame if this is true. Anything would be better for her than staying in this wilderness.

It is late and I need my rest. I do not look forward to resuming our journey in that stagecoach. But I fear I would need to take advantage of our stay here for peaceful rest. Who knows how long it will be before we find ourselves at Fort Laramie and in decent beds again. Give my love to your family and take care of yourself.

Your loving cousin,

Patricia North

"West to Laramie" [PG] - 2/4

Part 2 – The second part in a series of letters from a Philadelphia matron and her companion during their journey to the Pre-Civil War West.




"WEST TO LARAMIE"

Chapter 2


April 28, 1860

Mrs. Adelaide Middleton Taylor
231 Green Street
Philadelphia, Pa

Dear Addie,

Nearly twenty-four hours after you and Harold had deposited Patricia and myself aboard the train for New York City, we finally arrive in Chicago. Despite a delay in Princeton, we managed to make our connecting train for Chicago in time. The basket of food that you had insisted upon giving to me proved to be most fortuitous. 

The trip to Chicago provided no complications, I am happy to say – aside from the boorish behavior of our conductor. An unpleasant man with a sour face, the conductor had insisted that Patricia leave the first-class coach and sit in the car reserved for colored passengers. Patricia became irritated by his manner and an argument ensued between the two. I must say that man conducted himself in the most ridiculous manner! At least Patricia did not carry on like some hysterical child. I had firmly insisted that she stay with me, claiming I would require her services at all time. I doubt that the conductor believed me, but he had no proof to doubt my word. Patricia remained in my company throughout the entire trip. The conductor obviously must have been the type who was too cowardly to make further scenes. Especially with a white woman.

The basket of food proved to be more than fortuitous. It was God-sent. Both Patricia and I discovered in Pittsburg how atrocious the food served in these railway dining depots can be. One bite of a smoked sausage had sent us both scurrying back to the train for your basket.

We finally arrived in Chicago covered in dust and soot. The station master informed us that the next train for St. Joseph, Missouri was due to leave tomorrow afternoon. Patricia and I shared a room at a local boardinghouse located near the railway station. A plump, cheerful woman named Lenora Clarke owned the place. We had assumed that she would raise a fuss regarding Patricia’s presence. Unlike some of her fellow citizens of Illinois, Mrs. Clarke turned out to be a very tolerant woman. In fact, she and Patricia took to each other like ducks to water.

Chicago struck me as being a thriving city with great vitality. Within two decades, it has become the railway center of the West and the major stockyard for the entire country. Mrs. Clarke informed us that the city is preparing for the Republican convention for the next presidential election. There is talk that Illinois will push for one of its prominent citizens – an attorney named Abraham Lincoln from Springfield – as a potential candidate. He was the fellow who had ran against Stephen Douglas for the U.S. Senate seat, two years ago. He had made that famous "house divided against itself" speech.

After supper, I had hired a local cab to drive Patricia and myself on a little evening excursion along Lake Michigan. We stopped briefly to stretch our legs and encountered a Mr. McPherson, a local businessman and congenial companion. When I informed him of our travel plans, he assured us that unlike the stagecoaches here in the East, the Western coaches were the latest models built in Concord, New Hampshire. They should prove to be very comfortable. Patricia remained silent, but there seemed to be a "wait and see" expression in her eyes.

Dearest Addie, I do hope that you and Harold will take care of yourselves. I hope to meet the third member of your little family by the time Patricia and I return to Philadelphia.

I love you always,


Mother


=============================================================


May 3, 1860

Mrs. Elizabeth Evans
64 Anderson Road
Falmouth, MA

Dear Cousin Elizabeth,

How is Samuel and the rest of your family? And how is my favorite cousin, Charlotte? Is she still working as an assistant for the town’s doctor? I cannot say that I approve of her working for him. After all, nursing is an inappropriate profession for a young lady from a respectable family. I hope, for her sake that she is happy.

As you know from my last letter, Mrs. Middleton and I are on our way to Fort Laramie to attend her son’s wedding to the daughter of an Army major. We have finally reached St. Joseph in Western Missouri, two days ago. Frankly, I still find this little metropolis rather uncomfortable and cannot wait to leave. Do not misunderstand me. St. Joseph, I must admit, is a pleasant-looking community. There seem to be a large number of emigrants waiting to form trains for the trek west. It is situated directly north of the Missouri River and just east of the Missouri-Kansas border. Because it is a jump-off spot for westbound travelers, St. Joseph has grown quickly in size over the past decade.

Mrs. Middleton and I stayed at a hotel situated across the street from the Russell, Major and Widdell office of the Pony Express. Unlike a pleasant woman we had met in Chicago named Mrs. Clarke, the proprietor of the Hatten Hotel had at first refused to allow me to share a room with my employer. Claiming he did not want any "free niggers" in his place, he bluntly suggested that I find another place to board or sleep in the stables. Frankly, I would have preferred another hotel or boarding house than stay under the same roof with the narrow-minded fool. But Mrs. Middleton lied by informing him that I was her "bond servant" (Dear God!) and lacked extra money to pay for a room elsewhere. How humiliating! Mrs. Middleton’s ploy only reminded me that the North still practiced indenture servitude. The proprietor did not mind my new . . . "status" and allowed me to remain. However, I was forced to eat in the kitchen with the slaves.

During our tour of the town, we stopped at the Central Overland Stage Line office. The clerk assured us that we will have a comfortable trip. He added that the Indians would be no trouble. Apparently, the Army is keeping them away from"civilized" settlers and back on their lands. It amazes me that so many people have insisted that we had nothing to worry about the trip by stage. I feel that the Government and private businesses seem bent upon inducing people to settle in the West. And for some reason, my doubts regarding this journey have increased.

As I had stated before, the headquarters for the Pony Express is located across the street from our hotel. This postal service delivers mail and small packages between St. Joseph and San Francisco on the West Coast, using orphan boys and young men as dispatch riders. These young fellows travel hundreds of miles across the wilderness to deliver the mail in record speed. The Pony Express service has been in operation for only a month so far. I do not think it will last very long. Already, there is word of telegraph lines scheduled to be erected in the near future.

Yesterday afternoon, I came face to face with a very unsettling scene. It not only made me more than anxious than ever to leave this town, it reminded me that St. Joseph is part of Missouri – a slave state. Upon finishing my supper, I stepped outside for some air and spotted a gang of slaves shackled together and being herded toward the local slave mart. The sight of the ragged prisoners slowly making their way down the street, accompanied by a white man driving a wagon, sent chills down my spine. Not only did I remember that I was presently in a slave state, but that said state has sent hundreds of men into Kansas in order to turn that territory into a slave state.

At the moment, Mrs. Middleton and I are at the stage depot, waiting for the horses to be harnessed to our coach. All of the passengers were given two blankets (in May?) and a canteen of water for the journey. Four other passengers wait with us to board the coach. I will write to you when I can. Give my love to your family.

Your loving cousin,


Patricia North

"West to Laramie" [PG] - 1/4

”WEST TO LARAMIE”

Summary: A Philadelphia matron and her companion travel west by stagecoach to attend the wedding of her son, an Army officer, in pre-Civil War West.
Rating: PG



----------------------- 

”WEST TO LARAMIE”

Chapter 1


November 14, 1859

Mrs. Anne Middleton
63 46th Street
Philadelphia, PA


Dear Mother,

I am sure you will be happy to learn of the latest fortune to be bestowed upon me. I have the pleasure to announce my engagement to Miss Penelope Hilland, the only daughter of Major and Mrs. Ronald Hilland of Akron, Ohio.

Penelope and I have agreed to have our wedding on June 3 of next year at the fort’s chapel. I will be granted a three-month furlough between June and September. Unfortunately, Major Hilland will be unable to attend any ceremony held in the East, due to military duties. Penelope and I have decided to make the trip east as part of our honeymoon. Since Major Hilland is unable to travel, we hope that you and Addie will make the trip west to attend the wedding. I would not dream of getting married without my family in attendance.

I understand that the new Central Overland Stage Line between St. Joseph, Missouri and Sacramento, California has recently opened. You and Addie can travel from Philadelphia to St. Joseph by train. From there, you can reach Fort Laramie by stagecoach. From what I understand, traveling by stage should be more comfortable that it would in the East. A new type of coach is now in use. You should not have to worry about Indians. Our boys are keeping them busy and making sure they cause no trouble for the white settlers here on the plains.

Please try to make the trip. Nothing would please me more than to have my family witness my beginning with the most wonderful girl in this world. Tell everyone – especially Addie – hello for me. I hope to see you both next spring.

Your loving son,


Robert

=================================================== 

February 7, 1860


First Lieutenant Robert Middleton, U.S.A.
Fort Laramie, Nebraska Territory


Dear Robert,

My heart glowed at the news of your upcoming marriage to Miss Hilland. It is wonderful to hear that you have finally met a young lady with whom you can share the rest of your life. I also have news to share. Addie and her husband, Harold, are expecting a child sometime in July. This means that Addie will be unable to make the trip. Instead, my companion – Patricia North – will accompany me. I am sure it will be nice for you to finally meet her. I informed her that we will travel by train and stagecoach. She merely implied in her usual pessimistic manner that the trip might not be as comfortable as you had described in your letter.

We will depart from Philadelphia during the last week of April. We should arrive at Fort Laramie within a week-and-a-half. Please convey my greetings to your fiancée and her parents. I anticipate in finally seeing the West for the first time . . . and you after so many years.



I love you always,



Mother

"Marie" [PG-13] - Chapter Five

Civil War nurse Charlotte Evans uncovers a mystery at a Mississippi plantation during the middle of the war.


* * * *


"MARIE"

Chapter Five

The following day proved to be very busy. A calvary company had a brief skirmish with some rebel renegades that refused to accept the news of the Vicksburg surrender. They had been plaguing the countryside for the past two months. Because of this latest military action, Green Willows received new patients for its hospital.

My second shift ended around midnight. I felt extremely tired and anxious to crawl into bed. Miriam and I were downstairs helping Doctor Henson with the patients. Soon, it would be time for Alma, Alice and Doctor Anders to relieve us, thank God.

Doctor Henson decided he could not go on any further and retired to his quarters. I volunteered to make one last round of the patients and advised Miriam to follow the doctor's example. By four minutes after midnight, the relief team had not arrived, but I was too tired to wait for them any longer. I wanted to get some sleep.

A moonbeam streaked through one of the foyer's windows and lit up the staircase. Exhausted, I struggled to climb the winding staircase, one step at a time. As I reached the top, I heard the voice whisper in my ear again. "Garde," it said. Beware. I swerved around. No one seemed to be nearby. Dear God, not only was I tired, but I was hearing things as well. I had not taken three steps when I felt a pair of hands on my back as they shoved me forward. Terrified, I cried aloud and gripped the railing. Thankfully, I did the latter or I would have sailed right over the banister.

Breathless, I turned around and there stood Mrs. Scott, her narrow, pale face contorted with rage. She shrieked loudly and attacked me again. She grabbed my throat and arm and attempted to force me over. I was young, but I was also tired and she was in a state of rage and insanity.

"I won't let you take him away from me again! I won't, you hear!" Mrs. Scott screeched as her claws forced my body to arch over dangerously. My right foot was already off the floor and I my strength was ebbing away. Exhaustion and panic began to set in my mind as we continued to struggle. This is it, I thought. It was just a matter of time before I would fall to my death. I was in serious trouble.

"Mother!" It was Major Scott. Thank goodness! I felt Mrs. Scott's hands being forced away from my body. "What in God's name do you think you're doing?"

Free from Mrs. Scott's grip, I slid to the floor, weak with exhaustion. Green Willow's matriarch now fought her son with maddened frenzy. "Let go of me! Let go! I've got to stop her before she takes you away from me!"

"Mother! Mother, stop it!" Mother and son continued to struggle. Then to my surprise, Mrs. Scott caught Green Willow's owner off guard and shoved him against the wall. Her eyes red with rage, she rushed me for the second time that night. Unfortunately, I was in no condition to fight her. Realizing I was in danger of being attacked again, I quickly stepped aside, as she made a grab for me. Finding no one to shove, Mrs. Scott fell over the banister with a shriek and slammed unto the floor.

Major Scott rushed downstairs. Ignoring my exhaustion, I quickly followed. Tears streamed down his cheeks, Major Scott knelt beside his mother's body as he murmured, "Mother" repeatedly. Marie's killer was dead.

* * * *

As it turned out, it was Miriam who had alerted Major Scott about his mother, not my screams. She had spot Mrs. Scott walking along the hall with a strange expression and rushed to the major's room.

The following afternoon, Doctors Anders and Henson helped Major Scott bury his mother next to her husband . . . the man she had loathed for so many years. The major informed the local sheriff that she had been sleepwalking, when she fell to her death. Everyone knew Deborah Raymond Scott had not been in her right mind since the war began. Perhaps even before.

For the next two days, I suspected that my friendly relations with Major Scott had ended with his mother's death. He spent the next two days in his room, in solitude. On the third morning, he finally came out and found me in a wicker chair on the second-floor piazza. He sat down in a chair beside me. I gave him the letter I had found a few days ago. He read it and looked completely stunned. "Uncle Brent and Marie?"

"Yes," I said with a nod.

"Considering how much you look like Marie, no wonder Mother went after you. And Uncle Brent . . . is my real father? I cannot believe it." He paused for a moment. "On second thought, perhaps I can. Mama and Daddy could barely tolerate each other. I used to see him heading for the slave quarters all the time."

Realizing that the good major may be revealing some very private matters about his family, I gave the impression that his words had not shocked or embarrased me. The circumstances surrounding his mother's death, along with these new revelations, seemed to have made him less discreet than he would usually have been. "Have you ever seen your mother and . . . uncle together?"

"No," Major Scott replied with a shake of his head. "But Uncle Brent used to hang around Marie and me a lot. I even remember Mama being upset that day when he got engaged to that Miss Spaulding." He paused dramatically, before adding in a small voice, "Uncle Brent died the next day."

"You don't think she had . . . shot him, do you?"

The major's eyes widened with the shock of a possible revelation. "You know, I would not be surprised." We were both silent after that.

* * * *

Our makeshift hospital remained at Green Willows for another three weeks. By then, the patients who had survived, were transferred to a hospital steamboat that would take them to Memphis. We had received word from the Sanitary Commission of General Rosecrans's defeat at Chickamunga and entrapment in Chattanooga. The War Department had ordered General Grant to relieve them. So, Doctors Henson and Anders, Miriam, Alma, Alice and I were ordered back to Vicksburg to prepare for a trip to Bridgeport, Alabama and join Grant's troops.

The remaining Scott household stood on the veranda out front, to bid us good-bye. The calvary company stationed with us were mounted and waiting. I was the last one to say good-bye. I kissed Maum Janey on the cheek. "Take care of yourself honey," she said. "I don't know how long this war will last but you make sure you get home safely."

"I'll do my best," I answered. I leaned down to hug Shelby. He gave me a quick peck on the cheek and whispered good-bye. I finally turned to Major Scott and extended my hand for him to shake. It seemed strange that I would miss him, considering my first misconception of him. "I am sorry about what happened to your . . ." I started to say.

He waved it aside. "Please. You really should not apologize, Miss Evans. After all, Mo . . . she was trying to kill you. I am just relieved that you managed to come out of this safe." He still had not taken my hand. "Listen, I doubt if we'll ever see each other again, but I was wondering if you would mind us writing to each other now and then." His dark eyes expressed hope.

I stared back and thought of the differences that would keep us apart. But we had a few things in common. Mutual attraction, dislike of slavery and strong personalities. Frankly, I saw no harm in corresponding with him occasionally. "Of course," I replied. Major Scott took hold of my outstretched hand, and kissed it instead, taking me completely by surprise.

I entered the carriage blushing fiercely. As the carriage started down the driveway, everyone stared at me, but remained silent about the kiss. If someone had, I would have gladly helped that person out of the carriage - the hard way.

I turned in my seat for one last look at Green Willows. Major Scott, Shelby and Maum Janey remained on the veranda, waving. I waved back. My eyes raised to the second-floor piazza. There stood a female figure, her skirt billowing about her. She waved slightly and I murmured under my breath, "Au revoir, Marie." And the figure disappeared from sight.



THE END