The Diary Of Mattie Spenser (19 page)

After taking advantage of the looking glass to primp, I have spent the day waiting in the hotel for Luke’s return, but I think he intends to spend all his time at the conference. So tomorrow, Baby and I will venture out on our own. Since Denver is the first “city” I have visited in the West, I intend to see all I can of it.

Luke was greatly pleased with his meeting last night, as there was much discussion of crops that could survive with but little moisture. He believes finding such crops is the salvation of our part of Colorado Territory, although some contend nothing at all will ever be grown there. Tomorrow’s agricultural subject is wheat. A man in Denver discovered it growing in his backyard, although he did not plant it and does not know how it got there. But it thrives in this climate, and many believe Colorado offers a promise for cultivation of cereal grains.

March 7, 1867. Denver City.

Johnnie and I did not ask Luke’s permission to go skylarking, for fear he would forbid us from leaving the hotel. So, waiting until Husband was safely away, I bundled up Johnnie for protection from the fierce wind, and we two set out upon the grand Larimer Street boulevard, which is laid with logs to keep wayfarers from slipping into the muddy ooze and sinking out of sight. We crossed over the Cherry Creek, which is not an impressive river, as it has but a trickle of water. I am told it swells during storms, however, and in 1863, it overflowed, sweeping away all in its path. That does not deter Denverites from building right up to its banks once more.

Just a year before the flood, the city had a fire that blackened the town. Merchants rebuilt their stores with brick, but the homes are yet log or raw clapboard, each with a backhouse behind, and none with either paint or planting to soften the ugly lines. Perhaps that is because Denver is viewed as a temporary residence. All say they will stay here no longer than is necessary to make a fortune. I believe the city itself will sink into the mud and disappear one day.

The sidewalks are choked with people, and one must be fleet-footed not to be overrun. I never saw people hurry so. When Johnnie and I stopped to admire a bracelet in the window of J. Joslin, Jeweler, we were nearly run over by a man who did not break stride, but merely offered his apology on the run, so to speak. At home, he would be thrashed for his impudence, but here, any apology at all is considered gallantry.

There are many foreigners in Denver. Spaniards come from Mexico to do menial labor. These descendants of the Alhambra, wrapped in serapes as colorful as Joseph’s coat, compete with the manumitted members of the African race. Neither is much respected, although they are ignored rather than maltreated. Such conventions as color and class are less important here than in civilization.

There are Chinamen, too, who prefer the city to living in the gold camps, for they are not allowed to own claims there. So they operate laundries here. I had thought to leave my good petticoat with one, for it was spoilt from the mud, but Mrs. Chubb told me the Chinamen iron the laundry by filling their mouths with water, then spitting it upon the garment to be pressed.

I have seen Indians, as well. Just after Johnnie and Self were nearly knocked down by the impudent man, we passed an Indian lying senseless in the mud and slush of the street, a victim of intemperance. Naughty boys pelted him with rocks, and I thought to admonish them. Then I remembered Sallie and wondered if the savage was one of the braves who had stolen her away and treated her with such indecency. So I did not speak out.

I laugh at my concern that I would look the country bumpkin, for people dress in all manner of apparel, from coats made of blankets, favored by those who live in the mountains, to sackcloth and ashes, worn by one poor soul, who stood on a corner and prophesied Armageddon, arriving one week hence. The multitudes did not worry themselves with impending doom, but cheerfully wished him well. Men are not the only ones who are strangely dressed. From the window of the hotel, I saw a woman wearing rainment so gaudy, I thought her to be a harlot, but Mrs. Chubb told me she was a social leader of the city. And when I witnessed a funeral procession made up of carriages filled with the most fashionable women and dignified gentlemen, why, I was told the caisson bore the body of a strumpet who had been a favorite of the town.

We saw many tempting items in the shop windows, but I had vowed to be prudent, and so I passed them by on my way to W. Graham Drugstore, which Mrs. Chubb had recommended for items indispensable for a lady’s toilette. She herself has found it a reliable source of the Indian hemp she takes for nerves.

I located the store with no trouble, finding it complete in every way, except that it lacked a soda-water fountain. I was explaining to Mr. Graham how to concoct the mixture of rosewater, oil of nutmeg, oil of lavender, and tincture of cantharides that would return my hair to its normal hue, remarking such items were not available in Mingo. But before he could prepare it, an attractive woman rushed into the establishment and demanded his immediate attention.

“You’ll have to wait your turn. As you can see, I am busy,” he told her. I was in no hurry and happy to look about, so I offered to let her precede me, which she did without the slightest acknowledgment or thanks.

“You must help me,” she said in a whisper to Mr. Graham that was just loud enough for me to hear.

“I have done so before, Lila Kate, and I am not inclined to again,” he said.

“But you must. I am in the worst kind of pickle. Nigger Mag’s gone, and who else is there?”

“Do you not know of the new woman on upper Holladay Street? She will perform the operation.”

“Yes, for ten dollars. Now where’s a poor girl like me to get ten dollars? Shoot, I’d as easy get a hundred.”

I believe Mr. Graham glanced my way, but I was studying the directions on a packet of tea (the directions being written in Chinese, which language he must have supposed I could read) and pretended not to be listening.

“You can get it the way you always do,” Mr. Graham said.

At that, the woman broke into tears, and Mr. Graham agreed to sell her what she desired, leaving us alone whilst he went into the back of the store.

When he could not be seen, I gave her a friendly glance, as one woman does to another, but she mistook my meaning and put her nose into the air.

Returning, Mr. Graham caught her look of disdain. “Don’t you bother the customers,” he told her sternly, setting a blue envelope on the counter. I moved farther away but continued to observe the woman as she took a coin from her purse and handed it to him. Mr. Graham shook his head. “No, Lila Kate, you keep it, but don’t you come back here again. This is the last time.”

The woman muttered a reply, which I could not hear, for I had moved away and was studying a packet of opium powder.

“I expect you’ll come out well ahead this time. Knowing you, you’ll tell as many men as possible they’re responsible for your condition. You’ll likely get ten dollars from each one,” he said as the wretched woman left the store.

I was not so green that I did not know about cyprians, but I was innocent of a woman’s attempt to extort money from her distressing condition. The matter did not appear to disturb Mr. Graham, who clapped his hands a few times to make Johnnie laugh, then hummed under his breath as he readied my hair preparation. He charged me $1.50 for it, his generosity, apparently, extending only to soiled doves.

Johnnie and I walked along the street until we came to Greenleaf & Company, which we entered to purchase a tin of spiced oysters and a dozen of the best cigars for Luke. Husband does not use tobacco as a habit, but he enjoyed a cigar with Mr. Talmadge and told Tom he wished he could offer him one. Luke spends but little money on himself, and I have a small amount put away from my teaching days, so I thought to surprise him with the purchase. My little “bank” is known to me alone, for Luke did not inquire when we married whether I was a woman of fortune, and I did not offer the intelligence, for I believe a woman should have a little cash of her own. It is not fair that both husband and wife work together and yet the money belongs to the man and the woman must ask for an allowance. Since “our” money is Luke’s, my money remains mine, and I shall spend it as I see fit.

I am judicious with it, however, and, having purchased the items for Luke, a few necessities (including chocolate), and a toy for Johnnie’s Christmas, I was satisfied that I had finished my shopping. But I had not counted on the establishment of Mrs. Bertha Ermerins, Millinery, and was drawn to it as a bee to honey.

I went inside, believing I would purchase only ribbons to restore my poor old hat. But I spied a most wonderful silk bonnet, the inside white, the outer portion just the deep purple of lilacs near our porch at Fort Madison. It reminded me of Mother, for lilacs were her favorite. Mrs. Ermerins insisted I should put it on, then exclaimed that the color turned my eyes lavender and the cut of the brim covered up the gray streak in my hair. As if that was not enough to turn my head, she added that many had tried on the bonnet but that none looked better in it. So being Eve’s vain daughter, I fell victim to her flattery. When I emerged from the shop, I had the bonnet in hand, and Mrs. Ermerins had my five-dollar coin in hers. Each of us feels she got the better of the other. I do not think the price too dear for something that makes my eyes lavender.

Poor Baby was nearly spent from his busy morning, so we made just one more stop, and that at Mr. W. G. Chamberlain, Photographist, where we sat for tintypes. The likenesses will go to Luke at Christmas, to my family, and to Carrie. All will find Johnnie a handsome boy, and I hope they kindly overlook the old woman who holds him.

At last, we two weary sojourners returned to our hotel, where Johnnie was greeted with much pleasure, as he has been everywhere in the city. Mrs. Chubb says if we had been in Denver only five years previous, I should have made my “strike” by charging homesick men just to hold him. She holds Johnnie for free, and she enjoys it greatly because she misses her grandchildren at home. As Mrs. Chubb reluctantly returned Johnnie, she inquired whether she might tend him for the afternoon, freeing me to go about on my own. I have not left Johnnie with another before, but as Baby likes her and is a good judge of character (having selected Luke and Self as parents), I agreed.

Mrs. Chubb will come to me as soon as she has had her dinner, and I intend to call on Moses at the Mozart concert hall. I am sure he will be pleased to have a visitor in such an attractive lilac bonnet.

Johnnie was asleep when Mrs. Chubb arrived at our room, which disappointed her, for she had hoped to take him to the reception room, where she would be the center of attention. Instead, she settled onto a chair and picked up the copy of Tom Earley’s Drum-Taps, which I had brought with me.

I left at once, for I did not want to be away from Boykins any longer than necessary. I was some distance from the West Lindell when I remembered that I had not inquired of the clerk the location of the concert hall. So stopping a woman, I asked the way to the Mozart. She looked at me sharply, and at first, I thought she would not reply, but she answered curtly, “Up Larimer. Next block,” and hurried on her way.

Following her instructions, I reached a small white building with the name Mozart displayed across it and plunged inside. To my dismay, I found I had entered one of Denver’s infamous gambling halls, and I stopped, intending to back out. But others pushed in from behind, and I was propelled into its very midst and deposited next to a large wheel with a sign reading “Chuck a Luck.” I heard the click of dice and a loud “Damn it to hell,” then grunts and sighs from a table where sat four men with cards in their hands. One aimed a stream of tobacco juice in my direction, missed the spittoon behind me, and landed the foul wad on my skirt instead.

“Sir!” cried I.

He glanced up but did not offer an apology. “Move yourself, lady,” he said as he returned to his cards.

I made ready to follow his suggestion when I heard my name called. Coming toward me was the familiar form of Moses Earley.

“Fancy you in this place.” He laughed as if I had just played a huge joke on him.

“I did not know the Mozart was a gambling hall,” I replied, grasping his hand. In fact, it is what is known here as a “gambling hell.”

“Thought it was a concert hall, did you? Well, I guess you have gotten into the ‘wrong pew.’ “ Moses laughed loudly at this sally, and I joined in so he would not think he had hit the nail on its head. “Well, the Mozart isn’t so bad. It sure beats the Connor place in Mingo.” He looked about. “Say, where’s Luke? You didn’t come here alone, did you? Aw, you’re a brave woman.”

I explained the nature of Luke’s conference and said that as I had an afternoon free of Johnnie’s care, I had decided to pay him a call.

“With all there is to do in Denver, your husband’s attending an agriculture meeting? Don’t that beat all! Well, it suits Luke. Him and Tom never could stop talking about how wide to make the furrows and what crop soaked up the littlest water. It wasn’t the life for me. I guess you know I’m not for farming. Hell, the only good thing I got out of Mingo was Jessie.”

A man entered the room, shoving me aside. Moses did not reprimand him, but said, “We are impeding progress,” and led me to a vacant table in a corner, where he removed a cigar butt from a chair, and I sat down. A waiter approached, but Moses brushed him aside. “I do not think you’d care for anything that is served in this place,” he said with a laugh. “Now, what is the news from home?”

I told him of Sallie’s unsuccessful rescue.

“We heard about it here. Denver’s full of soldiers from the war, with plenty of fight left in them. What they wouldn’t give to kill Indians, and I guess I wouldn’t mind it myself. Old Ben Bondurant’s right: The only good Indian has a bullet through his back. I guess you feel that way, too, Sallie being your friend and all.”

I did not care to dwell on Sallie, so I changed the subject. “Tom is well, but he’s lonely, I think. I have suggested that he call on Miss Figg.”

“He’d have to be plenty lonely to court her. Tell him to come to Denver, and Jessie will introduce him to more pretty girls than he ever saw in his life.”