I had still to learn that neither Congressmen nor newsmen could be trusted with the lives of our men.
Let me try to be fair. Let us assume that over 90 percent of Congressmen and of newsmen are honest and honorable men. In that case, less than 10 percent need be murderous fools indifferent to the deaths of heroes for that minority to destroy lives, lose battles, turn the course of a war.
I did not have these grim thoughts in 1898; it would take the War of 1898 and two world wars and two undeclared wars (“police actions,” for God’s sake!) to make me realize that neither our government nor our press could be trusted with human lives.
“A democracy works well only when the common man is an aristocrat. But God must hate the common man; He has made him so dad-blamed common! Does your common man understand chivalry? Noblesse oblige? Aristocratic rules of conduct? Personal responsibility for the welfare of the State? One may as well search for fur on a frog.” Is that something I heard my father say? No. Well, not exactly. It is something I recall from about two o’clock in the morning in the Oyster Bar of the Benton House in Kansas City after Mr. Clemens’s lecture in January 1898. Maybe my father said part of it; perhaps Mr. Clemens said all of it, or perhaps they shared it—my memory is not perfect after so many years.
Mr. Clemens and my father were indulging in raw oysters, philosophy, and brandy. I had a small glass of port. Both port and raw oysters were new to me; I disliked both…not helped by the odor of Mr. Clemens’s cigar.
(I had assured Mr. Clemens that I enjoyed the aroma of a good cigar; please do smoke. A mistake.)
But I would have endured more than cigar smoke and raw oysters to be present that night. On the platform Mr. Clemens had looked just like his pictures: a jovial Satan with a halo of white hair, in a beautifully tailored white suit. In person he was a foot shorter, warmly charming, and he made of me an even more fervent admirer by treating me as a grown lady.
I was up hours past my bedtime and had to keep pinching myself not to fall asleep. What I remember best was Mr. Clemens’s discourse on the subject of cats and redheads…composed on the spot for my benefit, I think—it does not appear anywhere in his published works, not even those released by the University of California fifty years after his death.
Did you know that Mr. Clemens was a redhead? But that must wait.
News of the signing of the peace protocol reached Thebes on the twelfth of August, a Friday. Mr. Barnaby, our principal, called us all into the lecture hall and told us, then dismissed school. I ran home, found that Mother already knew. We cried on each other a little while Beth and Lucille were noisy around us, then Mother and I started in on a complete, unseasonal spring cleaning so that we would be ready when Father and Tom (and Mr. Smith?—I did not voice it) got home sometime next week. Frank was told to cut the grass and to do anything else that needed doing outdoors—don’t ask; just do it.
Church on Sunday was a happy Praise-the-Lord occasion, with Reverend Timberly being even more long-windedly stupid than usual but nobody minded, least of all me.
After church Mother said, “Maureen, are you going to school tomorrow?”
I had not thought about it. The Thebes school board had decided to offer summer high school (in addition to the usual make-up session for grammar school dullards) as a patriotic act to permit older boys to graduate early and enlist. I had signed up for summer school both to add to my education (since I had given up the idea of college) and to fill that aching emptiness caused by Father and Tom (and Mr. Smith) being away at war.
(I have spent the longest years of my life waiting for men to come back from war. And for some who did not come back.)
“Mother, I had not thought about it. Do you really think there will be school as usual tomorrow?”
“There will be. Have you studied?”
(She knew I hadn’t. You can’t do much with Greek irregular verbs when you are down on your knees, scrubbing the kitchen floor.) “No, Ma’am.”
“Well? What would your father expect of you?”
I sighed. “Yes, Ma’am.”
“Don’t feel sorry for yourself. Summer school was your idea. You should not waste that extra tuition. Now git! I will get supper by myself tonight.”
They did not come home that week.
They did not come home the following week.
They did not come home that fall.
They did not come home that year.
(Chuck’s body came home. The GAR provided a firing squad and I attended my first military funeral and cried and cried. A bugler with white hair played for Charles: “—sleep in peace, soldier brave, God is nigh.”
(If I ever come close to believing, it is when I hear “Taps.” Even today. )
After that summer session in 1898, when September came it was necessary to make a choice: go to school or not, and if so, where? I did not want to remain home, doing little but play nursemaid to George. Since I could not go to Columbia, I wanted to go to Butler Academy, a two-year private school that offered a liberal arts course acceptable at Columbia or at Lawrence in lieu of lower division. I pointed out to Mother that I had saved Christmas and birthday presents and “egg money” (“egg money” was any earned money—taking care of neighbors’ children, minding a stand at the county fair, and so forth—not much and quite seldom)—I had saved enough for my tuition and books.
Mother said, “How will you get back and forth?”
I answered, “How does Tom get back and forth?”
“Don’t answer a question with a question, young lady. We both know how your brother did it: By buggy in good weather, on horseback in bad weather…and he stayed home in the very worst weather. But your brother is a grown man. Tell me how you will do it.”
I thought about it. A buggy was no problem; the Academy had a barn for horses awaiting their masters. Horseback? I could ride almost as well as my brothers…but girls do not arrive at school wearing overalls, and sidesaddle was not a good idea for weather not suited to a buggy. But even good weather and a buggy—From late in October to early in March I would have to leave home before daylight and return home after dark.
In October 1889 Sarah Trowbridge had left her father’s farm to go four miles by buggy to Rich Hill. Her horse and buggy came home. Sarah was never seen again.
Ours was a quiet countryside. But the most dangerous animal in all history walks on two legs…and sometimes slinks along country roads.
“I am not afraid, Mother.”
“Tell me what your father would advise you to do.”
So I gave up, and prepared to go back to high school for another semester, or more. School was less than a mile away and there were people we knew within shouting distance the whole way. Best of all, our high school had courses I had not had time to take. I continued Greek and another year of Latin and started differential equations and first-year German and audited geology and medieval history instead of study hall those two hours. And of course I still continued piano lessons on Saturday mornings—Mother had taught me for three years, then she had decided that I could profit from more advanced training than she could give me. It was an “in kind” deal; Miss Primrose owed Father both for herself and for her ailing and ancient mother.
So that kept me out of mischief the school year starting September 1898 while still leaving me plenty of time to write a newsy unsentimental letter to Mr. Smith (Sergeant Smith!) each week, and another to Tom, and another to Father, and another to Chuck…until one came back to me the week before Chuck came back to us, forever.
I didn’t see boys or young men any to speak of. The good ones had gone to war; those who remained behind struck me, mostly, as having drool on their chins. Or as too impossibly young for me. I was not consciously being faithful to Mr. Smith. He had not asked me to be, and I would not expect him to be faithful to me. We had had one—just one—highly successful first meeting. But that did not constitute a betrothal.
Nor was I faithful. But it was just my young cousin Nelson, who hardly coun
ts. Nelson and I had one thing in common: We both were as horny as a herd of goats, all the time. And another thing—We were both cautious as a vixen with kits in coping with Mrs. Grundy.
I let him pick the times and places; he had a head for intrigue. Between us, we kept each other toned down to a pleasant simmer without waking Mrs. Grundy. I could happily have married Nelson, despite his being younger than I, had we not been so closely related. A dear boy. (Except for that lemon pie!)
They were not home for Christmas. But two more bodies came home. I attended each funeral, for Chuck’s sake.
In January my brother Tom came marching home with his regiment. Mother and Frank went to Kansas City to see the troop train arrive and the parade down Walnut, and the countermarch back to the depot where most of them got back aboard to go on terminal furlough at their home towns. I stayed home to take care of my sisters and George, and thought privately that it was pretty noble of me.
Tom had a hand-carried letter for Mother:
“Mrs. Ira Johnson
“Courtesy of Lance Corporal T. J. Johnson,
“C Company, Second Missouri Regiment.
“Dear Madam:
“I had hoped and expected to return home in the same train as our son Thomas. Indeed, by the terms of enrollment under which I accepted appointment as surgeon in our state militia on federal duty, I cannot be held more than 120 days beyond the proclamation of peace, id est, the twelfth of December last, or the sixth of January, this current month—the difference in dates being a legal technicality now moot.
“I regret that I must inform you that the Surgeon General of the Army has asked me and my professional colleagues to continue on duty here on a day to day basis until our services can be spared, and that I have accepted.
“We had thought that we had these devastating fevers under control and that we could dismantle the field hospitals here and send our remaining patients to Fort Bragg. But, with the arrival three weeks ago of casuals and casualties from Tampa, our hopes were dashed.
“In short, Madam, my patients need me. I will come home as quickly as the Surgeon General decides that I can be spared…under the spirit of the Oath of Hippocrates rather than through any quibble over the letter of the contract.
“I trust that you will understand, as you have so many times in the past.
“I remain, faithfully yours,
Your loving husband,
Ira Johnson, M.D.,
Captain (M.C.) AUS
Mother did not cry where anyone could see her…and I didn’t cry where anyone could see me.
Late in February I received a letter from Mr. Smith…postmarked Cincinnati!
“Dear Miss Maureen,
“By the time this reaches you I will have laid aside my Army blues and resumed wearing mufti; our engineering battalion, Ohio militia, is rolling west as I write this.
“It is my dearest wish to see you and to resume my suit for your hand in matrimony. With that prime purpose in mind, after a few days at home with my family, I purpose going at once to Rolla with the intention of re-enrolling. Although I was granted my degree in April last year about six weeks early, that sheepskin does not supply me with academic work that I missed. So I intend to make up what I lost, plus a bit more for good measure—which puts me close to Thebes for each weekend [which is what the wily fellow had in mind all along!].
“May I hope to see you on Saturday afternoon March fourth, and again on Sunday, March fifth? A postal card should reach me at School of Mines—but if I do not hear from you, I shall assume that your answer is Yes.
“This train is moving too slowly to suit me!
“My respects to your parents and my greetings to all your family.
“While looking forward eagerly to the fourth,
I remain faithfully yours,
Brian Smith, B.S.,
Sergeant, Eng. Battalion,
Ohio Militia (Federal Duty)
I reread it, then took a deep breath and held it, to slow my heart. Then I found Mother and asked her to read it. She did so, and smiled. “I’m happy for you, dear.”
“I don’t have to tell him to wait until Father gets home?”
“Your father has already expressed his approval of Mr. Smith…in which I concur. He is welcome.” Mother looked thoughtful. “Will you ask him to consider fetching with him his uniform?”
“Really?”
“Truly. So that he can wear it in church on Sunday. Would you like that?”
Would I! I told her so. “Like Tom did, his first Sunday home. Goody!”
“We will be proud of him. I intend to ask your father to wear his uniform his first Sunday home, too.” She looked thoughtful. “Maureen, there is no reason why Mr. Smith should have to put up with Mrs. Henderson’s boarding house, or drive clear back to Butler to the Mansion House. Frank can sleep in the other bed in Tom’s room and Mr. Smith can have Edward’s old room.”
“Oh, that would be nice!”
“Yes, dear. But—Look at me, Maureen.” She held my eyes. “Don’t let his presence under this roof cause either of you to permit any of the children—including Thomas, I must add—to see, or even to suspect, any impropriety.”
I blushed clear to my collarbones. “I promise, chère mama.”
“No need for promises; just be discreet. We are women together, dear daughter; I want to help you.”
March came in like a lamb, which just suited me, as I did not want to spend a long afternoon being primly proper in our parlor. The weather was warm and sunny, with no breeze to speak of. So on Saturday the fourth I was the perfect shy young maiden, with parasol and leg o’ mutton sleeves and a silly number of petticoats…until Daisy had us a hundred yards from the house and out of earshot of anyone. “Briney!”
“Yes, Miss Maureen?”
“‘Miss Maureen,’ my foot. Briney, you’ve had me in the past; you can stop being formal, now that we are alone. Do you have an erection?”
“Now that you mention it—Yes!”
“If you had said No, I would have burst into tears. Look, darling, I’ve found the loveliest place—”
(Nelson had found it.) There seemed to be evidence that no one else knew of it. Daisy had to be led through two tight spots, then she could be unharnessed and allowed to graze—while we two turned the buggy around. Impossible for the mare to do it; not enough room for her to back and fill.
I spread the blanket down on a grassy spot separated from the bank by a thick bush…and undressed while Brian watched me—right to my skin, right to stockings and shoes.
That spot was certainly private but anyone within a quarter mile must have heard me. I fainted on that first one, then opened my eyes to find my Briney boy worried. “Are you all right?” he asked.
“I’ve never been more all right in my life! Thank you, sir! You were splendid! Terrific. I’ve died and gone to heaven.”
He smiled at me. “You aren’t dead. You’re here and you’re wonderful and I love you.”
“Do you, truly? Brian, are you honestly intending to marry me?”
“I am.”
“Even with me disqualified for the Howard Foundation?”
“Redhead, the Foundation introduced us…but it had nothing to do with me coming back. I would happily indenture myself for seven years, like what’s-his-name in the Bible, for the privilege of marrying you.”
“I hope you mean that. Do you want to hear how I’m disqualified?”
“No.”
“So? I’m going to tell you anyhow, because I need your help.”
“At your service, Ma’amselle!”
“I’m disqualified because I’m not pregnant. If you will raise up just a little, I will take that rubber mockery off you. Then, sir, if you please, as soon as you are rested enough, I ask you to qualify me. Briney, let’s start our first baby!”
He surprised me…by being ready again almost at once. Even Nelson could not manage it that quickly. My Brian was a remarkable man.
Bareness to
bareness was just as perfect as I always knew it would be. This time I was even louder. I have since learned to have an orgasm silently…but I would much rather sound off, if conditions permit. Most men like applause. Especially Briney.
At last I sighed. “That did it. Thank you, sir. I am now an expectant mother. I felt it hit the target. Spung!”
“Maureen, you’re wonderful.”
“I’m dead. I died happy. Are you hungry? I made some tiny cream puffs for our lunch and filled them just before you arrived.”
“I want you for lunch.”
“Blarney. We must keep up your strength. You won’t be deprived.” I told him about the arrangements we would have that night—and other nights. “Of course Mother knows all about it; she was a Howard bride herself. She just asks that we keep a good face on things. Briney, are your parents redheaded?”
“Mother is. Dad’s hair is as dark as mine. Why?”
I told him about Mr. Clemens’s theory. “He says that while the rest of the human race are descended from monkeys, redheads derive from cats.”
“Seems logical. By the way, I forgot to tell you. If you marry me, my cat is part of the package.”
“Shouldn’t you have mentioned that before you knocked me up?”
“Perhaps I should have. You object to cats?”
“I don’t even speak to people who object to cats. Briney, I’m cold. Let’s go home.” The sun had gone behind a cloud and the temperature suddenly dropped—typical March weather for Missouri.
While I dressed, Briney got Daisy backed into the shafts and hitched up. Brian has that gentle but firm touch that horses (and women) understand; Daisy obeyed him as readily as she obeyed me, although she was usually terribly shy with strangers.