and I can more fully appreciate the great Shakespeare because we have both lived enough of life to understand the truth and wisdom of his words.”
“In my case war was a stern teacher of truth, if not wisdom,” said the Captain. “But how is it that a young woman of your obvious breeding knows so much of life, madam?”
“Captain, it is quite likely that you and I will not know each other long enough for my personal history to matter,” I said.
“It matters to me already, Miss Dodd,” he said. “Surely, you are aware of that.”
I still stared at the horizon, but I could feel the Captain’s dark eyes on my face, the heat of his arm against mine. My breath came in shallow draughts as if I could not take sufficient air into my lungs. “It is late, Captain,” I managed to say. “Perhaps we should take our stroll another time.” Where our arms had touched and now parted it was like tearing my own flesh from the bone.
My candle burns down, dear Hortense, I must rest my pen …
I am,
Your loving sister, May
20 April 1875
Under way at last, we ride in mule-drawn wagons, escorted by a very snappy company of cavalry, at the head of which Captain John G. Bourke, with perfect military carriage, rides a smart-stepping white mare. That the army has entrusted us to the care of such an illustrious Indian fighter as the Captain is testament, I believe, to the fact that our safety is of the utmost concern to the authorities.
A number of the fort residents have gathered to watch our procession out the gates, including the Captain’s pretty young fiancée, Lydia Bradley, who is dressed in a lovely pale pink spring dress and a matching bonnet (noticeably unadorned by feathers) and who smiles and waves a white handerchief at her Captain as he passes. He tips his hat to her gallantly. How I envy them, the life they will lead together. How drab she makes me feel …
Then we are through the gates, and beyond the fort and into the great prairie itself. Here the road rapidly deteriorates until it is little more than two ruts and then seems to disappear altogether. The ride is rough, the wagon itself exceedingly uncomfortable, with only the most unforgiving benches on which to sit. We are constantly jostled, often so violently that it seems to shake our teeth loose in our heads. Dust seeps up through the floorboards so that a perpetual cloud roils inside. Poor Martha has been sneezing since we got under way. With fully a fortnight yet to go I fear that it will be a long, desperately unhappy journey for her.
21 April 1875
Spring is in full bloom today, which offers a bit of cheer to this otherwise difficult passage. Much to the shock of some of the other ladies, I have decided to ride up on the buckboard alongside our teamster, a rough-spoken young man named Jimmy. I prefer the open air to choking on dust inside the wagon, and I am able to see something of the countryside as we pass, to enjoy a bit of the springtime.
Beyond the vastly improved view, another advantage to riding up top with Jimmy is that he can educate me about this new country of ours. While he is a rough lad, he seems quite knowledgeable on the subject, and I think that secretly he rather enjoys the feminine company.
Whereas the country on our first day of travel was flat, tedious, and largely without vegetation of interest, we seem today to be gaining a more varied topography of gently rolling hills intersected by rivers and creeks.
It has been a damp spring and the grass is as green as mother always described Scotland to be when she was a girt—the prairie wildflowers are just now coming into bloom, the birds everywhere in full song, the meadowlarks trilling joyously as if announcing our passage. There are ducks and geese by the thousands in every pothole of water and upon every flooded plain. Helen Flight is terribly pleased with the fecundity of bird life, and periodically begs the Captain to halt our procession so that she may descend with her
“In my case war was a stern teacher of truth, if not wisdom,” said the Captain. “But how is it that a young woman of your obvious breeding knows so much of life, madam?”
“Captain, it is quite likely that you and I will not know each other long enough for my personal history to matter,” I said.
“It matters to me already, Miss Dodd,” he said. “Surely, you are aware of that.”
I still stared at the horizon, but I could feel the Captain’s dark eyes on my face, the heat of his arm against mine. My breath came in shallow draughts as if I could not take sufficient air into my lungs. “It is late, Captain,” I managed to say. “Perhaps we should take our stroll another time.” Where our arms had touched and now parted it was like tearing my own flesh from the bone.
My candle burns down, dear Hortense, I must rest my pen …
I am,
Your loving sister, May
20 April 1875
Under way at last, we ride in mule-drawn wagons, escorted by a very snappy company of cavalry, at the head of which Captain John G. Bourke, with perfect military carriage, rides a smart-stepping white mare. That the army has entrusted us to the care of such an illustrious Indian fighter as the Captain is testament, I believe, to the fact that our safety is of the utmost concern to the authorities.
A number of the fort residents have gathered to watch our procession out the gates, including the Captain’s pretty young fiancée, Lydia Bradley, who is dressed in a lovely pale pink spring dress and a matching bonnet (noticeably unadorned by feathers) and who smiles and waves a white handerchief at her Captain as he passes. He tips his hat to her gallantly. How I envy them, the life they will lead together. How drab she makes me feel …
Then we are through the gates, and beyond the fort and into the great prairie itself. Here the road rapidly deteriorates until it is little more than two ruts and then seems to disappear altogether. The ride is rough, the wagon itself exceedingly uncomfortable, with only the most unforgiving benches on which to sit. We are constantly jostled, often so violently that it seems to shake our teeth loose in our heads. Dust seeps up through the floorboards so that a perpetual cloud roils inside. Poor Martha has been sneezing since we got under way. With fully a fortnight yet to go I fear that it will be a long, desperately unhappy journey for her.
21 April 1875
Spring is in full bloom today, which offers a bit of cheer to this otherwise difficult passage. Much to the shock of some of the other ladies, I have decided to ride up on the buckboard alongside our teamster, a rough-spoken young man named Jimmy. I prefer the open air to choking on dust inside the wagon, and I am able to see something of the countryside as we pass, to enjoy a bit of the springtime.
Beyond the vastly improved view, another advantage to riding up top with Jimmy is that he can educate me about this new country of ours. While he is a rough lad, he seems quite knowledgeable on the subject, and I think that secretly he rather enjoys the feminine company.
Whereas the country on our first day of travel was flat, tedious, and largely without vegetation of interest, we seem today to be gaining a more varied topography of gently rolling hills intersected by rivers and creeks.
It has been a damp spring and the grass is as green as mother always described Scotland to be when she was a girt—the prairie wildflowers are just now coming into bloom, the birds everywhere in full song, the meadowlarks trilling joyously as if announcing our passage. There are ducks and geese by the thousands in every pothole of water and upon every flooded plain. Helen Flight is terribly pleased with the fecundity of bird life, and periodically begs the Captain to halt our procession so that she may descend with her
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