Perry County, Kentucky
Near Hazard
The December skies were a heavy gray, and the clouds threatened rain or snow as the Wilson family gathered around the raw new grave in the family cemetery. Jemima, who had never ceased wearing black since the day she had been widowed, stood beside her second eldest son, Jacob. His three children, all daughters, ages ten, twelve, and fourteen, and clustered close to their father as the casket containing their mother was lowered into the ground. The rest of Jemima’s family, save her three sons who lived in far distant Texas, circled the grave, faces somber and sad. As she so often did, she wished her oldest, Boone, were there. A mere fifteen when his daddy died of pneumonia, he’d been her rock, a steady older brother and sometimes surrogate father for the younger children right up until he left to fight in the War Between The States. Although he’d come home when many hadn’t, he didn’t linger but headed away to Texas, where he remained.
She’d thought for a time that he and her youngest, Ezekiel, would return home, and they’d written that they both would. Ezekiel had left home at fifteen to be with Boone, but Boone nearly died of a gunshot wound, then came close to being hanged for a crime he didn’t commit. When the news came that her oldest son might be hanged, she’d sent Moses to Texas. Jemima had expected them all back, but Boone had married, and his wife was in a delicate way, so they couldn’t make the journey. Although she had three granddaughters right there in Kentucky, in Texas, she had a granddaughter named for her, Boone’s first child, and another boy. By now, there was likely another in Boone’s family. She’d made up her mind that if they weren’t coming home, she would go to them, but she was waiting for train travel to reach somewhere close to where they lived.
Jacob, her second oldest boy, had married young right before the Civil War ended. His bride, Sally Ann, had been sixteen, just a girl, but they’d been in love. Jemima didn’t object to the wedding, suspecting they’d already been intimate. She had been wise enough to see that they were a matched pair, so better to bless the union and move forward. Sally Ann had proved to be a good wife to Jacob. Standing at her graveside, it still didn’t seem possible she could be gone.
She’d delivered a stillborn child in the second week of November, and although they grieved the loss, Sally Ann had seemed well but weak. She succumbed to childbed fever and succumbed weeks later, leaving her daughters upset and Jacob heartbroken. The trio of girls, named Faith, Hope, and Charity, would live with Sally Ann’s parents now. Jacob had declared he couldn’t stay in Kentucky after losing his wife and that he meant to light out for Texas to follow his brothers.
The Wilsons had two ways to make a living, growing tobacco and raising horses. Until they lost most of a crop a few years earlier, Jacob had farmed, but now he split his time between the plow and the corral. It was no secret he’d hoped for sons to help him, but each time Sally Ann had a child, it was another girl, including the stillborn infant.
After his wife had been buried, Jacob lingered at his mother’s home. Earlier, there had been food, plenty of it, but he couldn’t eat much. Mourners had crowded into every corner, but as it grew later, they began to leave, first the neighbors and friends, then the family one by one. Jacob’s daughters had gone home with their mother’s people, taking their possessions with them. Jemima had watched as he kissed each one on the forehead and said goodbye. She hugged each one in turn and watched them go, but her son did not.
“Jacob, if you want, you can stay here,” she told him. The four-room house, once a mere cabin, offered space now.
“I might take you up on that,” Jacob said after a long pause. “Our place is going to be awful lonely now, and I’d be thinking I saw her everywhere. Fact is, if one of the others wanted it, they can move on in. I ain’t figuring to stay, especially since Maude and Thomas took the gals.”
“Stay in the cabin or stay in Kentucky?” Jemima asked. She’d learned to ask rather than assume, especially with her children.
“Neither one,” he said. “Ain’t nothing left for me here. I’m not rightly sure where I’d go, Ma, but somewhere. They got the railroad all the way to California, and I might like to see that country. Or I might mosey on down to Texas, find the others. I reckon I know as much about horses as they did when they skedaddled.”
“I have it in my mind to go to Texas myself one of these days,” Jemima said. She’d written in a letter to Boone, but until now, she hadn’t spoken it aloud. “Railroad isn’t finished there, though, and I think it’s a hard trip.”
Jacob rose, poured a cup of coffee from the pot on the cookstove. “It likely would be for you, Ma. You’re an old woman.”
She bristled at that. “I’m not but fifty-one years old,” she told him. “That ain’t exactly ancient, nor do I have a foot in the grave yet.”
No sooner than she’d spoken the words, she remembered they’d just buried his wife and regretted them. Still, there was no taking them back, so she didn’t bother.
“You might be feelin’ young, but I ain’t,” Jacob replied. “Are you thinking to go visit or to stay?”
“I ain’t decided.”
He laughed a little, first time since Sally Ann delivered a stillborn child and died. “What’s Boone gonna think if you turn up in Texas?”
“I like to think he’d be happy to see me, Moses, and Ezekiel, too.”
“He likely would,” Jacob replied. “I’m still working out whether or not he’d be glad to see me.”
“He would be surprised, but I think he’d be pleased.”
“That’s what I figure, but I ain’t going anywhere just yet. I need a little time to study on it all. When you write, don’t mention I might be heading in that direction.”
“I won’t, but I will tell him the sad news about Sally Ann.”
Jacob nodded. “Do that. I’m turning in for the night. I’m wore out.”
“Good night, then, son.”
Although it was late, Jemima sat at the table in the kitchen. She wasn’t sleepy in the least, and her mind brimmed full of possibilities. She would like to look on her boys’ faces again, and Texas, though it sounded like a wild place, intrigued her.
With that in mind, she got down the last letter she’d had from Boone, read it again, and got out paper to write a reply.
December 11, 1875
Dear Boone and all,
I am well, and so is most of the family, but I must write some sad news. Jacob’s wife, Sally Ann, died the last week of November after delivering a stillborn child. She had the childbed fever, and it took her. Jacob is heartbroken. Sally Ann’s folks took the three little girls to live with them, and Jacob is here with me, at the home place.
I hope all of you are in good health. I pray for that each and every day. I think of you all daily. I try to imagine what life in Texas is like. I probably have no notion of it, but when the railroads get close, I plan to come to Texas. I want to see all of you, meet Boone’s Rachel, and love those precious grandchildren.
If the Good Lord is willing, I will do that all one day.
By the time she’d written that much, Jemima had become weary, so she put the letter away to finish on another day. Tomorrow was Sunday, and she would go to church even if Jacob didn’t. It was not a far walk, and she needed the solace found there. After the service, she made the trek home while snow flurries fell. Although her custom was to have a big Sunday dinner, there was so much food left that neighbors had brought that she and Jacob ate cold fried chicken for their meal.
With one thing and another, Jemima didn’t return to the letter for almost a week. She tried to think of things to share but had trouble. When her children all were near, they were part of the cloth her life was fashioned from, she thought. She knew each stitch, was aware of any rips or tears, knew when mending took place. With three of her sons and two grandchildren in Texas, however, she had no idea what happened in their daily life. By the time she wrote a letter, time had passed, and there was no space for any but the most vital news. Jemima didn’t write about the flock of geese that came over or the two she roasted after Garrett shot them, about the fact the new pastor was a widower who seemed to have an eye for her, or that the milk cow went dry. Such details wouldn’t matter much weeks or months later, she thought.
And although Boone was good to write, he seldom shared tidbits of their daily lives in Texas. Jemima had no idea when her granddaughter first walked or talked or what she said as her first word. She knew Boone was top hand but not what exactly he did. When her sons trailed cattle, she had no notion of what they faced or how many miles they covered. If they were sick or hurt, she would never know unless it was something severe. There were no detailed descriptions about the ranch, although he had written about the bluebonnets in spring and the heat of summer.
On the last Saturday before Christmas, after she’d baked some gingerbread, Jemima sat down to finish the letter but stared at the paper instead. She had awakened with Moses heavy on her heart and didn’t know why. There had been something in a dream she had, something she could not quite remember, that disturbed her, but the thought of Moses lingered. Jemima worried. It wasn’t usual for her to have such worry over one of her distant sons. Although she thought of them often, at least once each day, it wasn’t with such trepidation and concern.
The four years, almost five since she’d seen Moses, were no longer important as she went about her daily work and prayed all was well. Although he was her second to youngest son, Moses had become her right hand in the years after the war, after Boone left for Texas. He’d been her confidant and her help. Just nineteen years old, when they got word that Boone was expected to hang for a murder he didn’t commit, she hadn’t hesitated in sending Moses to find out how his brother fared. By all accounts, it had been her Moses who tracked down the true events of the killing and caused Boone to be spared. Jemima had not regretted sending him, but she did miss him, just as she did Boone and Ezekiel.
She had never been prone to premonitions, not the way her Irish granny had been, but Jemima had a sense that Moses was in trouble. She couldn’t pinpoint whether it was a sickness or an injury, but she felt it, and so she prayed. There wasn’t anything else she could do. There was no way to head for Texas that didn’t involve a long journey and no way to communicate. Even an expensive telegram would take time to arrive and to be answered.
Jemima got out the half-finished letter and continued,
Is all well with Moses? I’ve been troubled on his account, so I pray he is well. There is nothing more I can do but pray, although I wish that there could be. Write me back as soon as possible to let me know how he fares so I won’t worry more.
We are getting ready for Christmas here. I will cook two hams, and all those near will come, including Jacob’s three girls. I am hoping that will cheer him for he has been in despair since Sally Ann passed.
I wish all of you the best in the new year, 1876. This nation will be a century old. That is something to ponder.
I pray that we will meet again in this life, and if not, I take comfort that one day we will be together on that bright and golden shore called Heaven.
All of my love, your mother, Jemima Wilson.
With the letter finished, she sealed it. Jacob or Garrett could take it to be sent on the next trip to town. She turned her efforts toward making Christmas as merry as it could be under the circumstances, baking, and cooking, and planning. Her heart wasn’t in it, though, not for watching Jacob mourn and worrying about Moses.
The day came with snow, and although she had never adopted the custom of a Christmas tree as many did, Jemima’s house was decorated with cedar boughs and a few sprigs of mistletoe. She enjoyed having a houseful, but when they had all gone, the silence made her sad, remembering when her home brimmed full each day.
Between Christmas and New Year’s, Jacob worked around the place, taking care of chores that had been neglected. He added to her diminishing woodpile and fixed the broken step that led up to the front porch. He made various repairs around the place and took over tasks she normally did, like feed the chickens and milk the cow.
For some reason, she didn’t understand, her worry for Moses diminished, and she felt that perhaps the crisis, whatever it might have been, had passed. Jemima still longed to know how he did and waited for the return letter, that would take a long time. Her letter to Texas was likely not to arrive for a month, maybe longer so she resigned herself to waiting.
After New Year’s Day, the new pastor, a man named Samuel Coffey, came calling. He’d visited in the past, but this time was different. Now, the Reverend came courting. He brought her a paper of pins and flat out told her he’d like to court her with the object of marriage.
“You’re a fine woman, Missus Wilson,” he began. “I’ve had my eye on you since I arrived in these parts. I lost my wife some years ago, and you’re a widow woman. Your young ‘uns are all grown now, and I expect you may be as lonely as I am sometimes. I’d like to court you and consider a wedding next fall. Are you willing?”
“To court or marry?” Jemima asked. His declaration didn’t surprise her. She had a keen eye for human nature, and she’d figured he had been a little smitten. She also thought perhaps he didn’t want to marry so much for a second love but for convenience. He had no one to cook his daily meals, or darn his socks, or keep him comfortable.
“Either one,” he answered with a hopeful glint in his eye.
“I’m willing for neither,” she said without hesitation. “If I’m lonely, it’s never for long, and there’s always my Lord Jesus. I’ve no wish to marry, not you, sir, or any other. I thank you for your offer, though, and wish you well.”
After that, he didn’t linger, and after he departed, she figured he would move on to another widow, maybe Elizabeth Dickens or Rosie Lassiter, and still be wed come autumn.
When she told Jacob about the proposal over supper, he cracked a rare smile.
“Did you say no because you still love my father?”
She shook her head. “That’s not the reason. Oh, I’ll have love in my heart for Robert Wilson till they lay me in the black grave, but he’s gone, dead as the rocks that cover his grave. I never thought to marry again and if I did, I’d have to have the right feeling for the man. I respect the Reverend Coffey, but there was no spark like there ought to be between a man and woman.”
“Ma, you are a caution,” Jacob said. “I’ve no thought to marry again neither, but I’d feel the same, I reckon. Do you think you broke his heart?”
“I don’t,” she said. “I expect he’ll find another bride before summer and get wed in the fall. He wasn’t favoring me so much as he just wanted a wife, a woman to tend him. He’ll find that easy enough. Besides, I do mean to go to Texas one day, maybe when a train travels close enough to that ranch or when I come into a fortune so I can take ship to Galveston and go from there.”
Jacob looked up from his plate. “You’re serious about that, aren’t you?”
“I am,” she replied. “I know you children figure I’m getting too old, and maybe I’m soft in the head, but I ain’t addled at all. I’d like to see my other three sons again.”
“You’re stubborn as a mule, so you might very well do it,” he said. “You know I mean to head for Texas myself soon, don’t you?”
He’d mentioned it more than once. Jemima could see he needed a change of scenery. Garrett had little time to spend comforting his brother. The girls, all married with children, were building their own lives. Jacob sought the companionship of his other three brothers. The lure of adventure might be an antidote to his grief.
“I do, son, and I’ll miss you when you go,” she told him. “I’ll just have four sons to visit in Texas instead of three.”
“Garrett won’t leave Kentucky.”
She shrugged. “He might or might not. But I will.”
And in that moment, she made up her mind beyond any doubt. She didn’t know when or exactly how, but she would one day find her way to Texas.