The Woman with the Red Hair.
There was something about her that day. I swore the color behind her eyes changed. I loved her so much. It was hard for me to handle what was happening, but I had to for her. It all started on a Thursday night. I came home one day early. I shouldn't have, but I did. She was there sitting at the kitchen table. Her sunglasses were splayed beside her feet, along with her purse and jacket. She never looked at me.
"What's going on?" I said.
"Sit down," she said sternly, staring daggers at the wall ahead.
I pulled out the wooden chair keeping my eyes down. Did she even know it was me? We hadn't made eye contact, nor has she made a single movement.
"Why are you here?" She said.
"Look," I rushed out, "I..."
She held up her hand, "it's okay," she said. I watched as she rubbed her hands over her eyes, pushing into the lids smearing what mascara was left. I didn't know what to say. I had never seen her like this, and the house I was beginning to notice was utterly silent.
"Where's..." I said before she held up her hand again. I tightened my lips and stared at her. She looked sweaty and anxious. Her black top was disheveled around the neck, and my God, she was missing an earring. She threw her head back with her eyes closed, took another deep breath, and then proceeded to tell me about Mackenzie, Mackenzie Roth.
She had gotten bored in the afternoons and decided to go into the city. She wasn't sure what she'd do when she got there, but she thought she could figure something out. The train was only about a ten-minute walk from the house, simple. She packed a light bag and walked to the train that headed right into the center of Manhattan.
She was so confident when she boarded the train, but the closer it got to the city, the deeper she could feel her stomach sink. What would she do when she got there? She wasn't savvy at anything. Why did she need to go exploring now, at this age? She had planned to get off the train when it arrived and hop right onto another train home. No exploring today. This was a big enough step. The train came to a stop. The crowd was so strong exiting the train that she was on the streets of New York City by the time she realized what had happened. It was loud. People pushed by her frustratingly as she stood aimlessly in the center of the sidewalk. How did she end up out here? She followed the crowd so blindly. Nerves raddle through her spin, and she started to panic. She took a deep breath and spotted a simple coffee shop only steps away. It wasn't too busy. It was 1100 AM. Right in the middle of breakfast and lunch. She straightened her bag and jacket and pushed through the door of the café.
After ordering a medium cappuccino, she took a seat at the window, looking out to the street because she was too anxious to pick from the menu. She couldn't believe it. Here she was, sitting by herself in a coffee shop in New York City. Her heart fluttered. She was so lost at that moment that she hadn't noticed her name being called. The shop was surprisingly relatively peaceful. It was only her, a man, and the baristas. The baristas whispered to one another behind the counter, looking at their phones and giggling now and again. The man had a headset on and was staring into the soul of his laptop. So she was startled when she saw Mackenzie standing beside her.
"Are you Sandy?" Mackenzie said, smiling.
Alarmed that she knew her name, she stuttered, "um, yes..."
Mackenzie smiled again. "Your coffee," she set the coffee down in front of her.
She was confused. Where did this girl come from? Had she been in the bathroom?
"You were the only one I thought could be Sandy," Mackenzie said, nudging towards the man with the laptop and smiling.
"Oh, my, yes," she said, bumping her forehead, "I'm not a city girl."
Mackenzie smiled at her for the fourth time and said, "want some company?"
She didn't respond right away. She wasn't sure if she wanted company. This was a solo exploration, but this girl seemed nice enough. Maybe this would be good for her?
"Okay," she said, "sure." She reached for the bench beside her, motioning for Mackenzie to sit.
Heaven on Earth
At the edge of the ocean I see clearly, knowing I have already been there.
Enough
You wake up and look in the mirror
Another day, another routine
Do all the things you have to do because society says so
Never make a mistake
But what if you do?
You'll be mocked for standing out
For refusing to blend in or to go without a fight
To let go and just let the wind carry you about
Pushing you toward the people who really care
And away from the ones who judge
Because how can this be you?
How can you go about your life being perfect
All the time
And never feel numb or broken or abandoned?
Never feel like the world is caving in, swallowing you whole?
But then he comes along
He tells you how it hurts that he can never be good enough
You tell him he is to you
And that you feel the same thing
And he jumps into your messy sea of insecurity
And he helps you find yourself
And you do the same for him
And, yeah, you're outcasts
But you're outcasts together
And somehow
In this crazy world that you live in
That ends up being enough for you
He ends up being enough for you
I'm sorry. I can't do this anymore. I wanted to work on this collaboration project, but I can't anymore. I'm not strong or focused enough to do this. I'm really sorry...But I can't do this anymore.
I'm from here on out until past April not going to be here on Prose. I might never come back (except to read one person's work, who I cannot abandon for the life of me, despite all my own troubles).
I've loved meeting you all and reading your work. You are talented writers. Keep it up!
I'm going to miss Pen to the Papers, Caleb, and I'm going to miss all your beautiful works of art, Sanjana. Keep it up!
Anybody who wants to continue the group collab can pick it up. This is no longer my concern. Nightscribbler was going to edit, and she still might. I'm sure that if the project continues, you all will figure it out. We are not a bunch of incompetents here on Prose; I hope.
Epilogue
June 1959 – Hyannis Port
“Grandmother, please, tell me more!”
“Oh, child, there is so much more I could tell you. From the many letters I received from Artie, I became, or believed I was a family member.
“Chadlynn passed away around 1900, quietly in her sleep. Which meant, according to Artie, Chadlynn wouldn’t have to contend with her dreams coming true any longer. Their two daughters were in World War One as nurses and managed to get through that ordeal without losing their sanity or their lives. Sam died a few years later from a heart attack.
“Artie met and married a man named Evan Walker, a Wall Street stockbroker and they remained married until her death in 1956. But she and I shared the same wedding day, mine being here in Boston to your grandfather, Joseph, and hers in Virginia before she departed for New York with Evan. Artie had two lovely children, both boys. Her one dream to be a motorcycle racer did come true for a few years. She won a few small races and one she called ‘dirt track,’ which I never understood, but she eventually walked away from it all: too much pressure from a male-dominated sport; that, and, the truth was, she had a family to care for.
“I look back on our relationship and smile. She was always a headstrong, somewhat forceful, woman, and I like to believe she was the driving force behind Evan’s success. Want to know the most interesting part of our friendship? Other than the one time we first met, we never saw each other again, but we maintained what I consider to be a special bond.
“Her brother and sister, Owen, and Diana, took over the family business after their parents passed away, and the very last thing I’ve heard about them is that they sold the business to a corporation called Kresge’s Five and Dime, the owner being Sebastian Spering Kresge; from what I understand, he is doing quite well. As to what happened with the twin siblings, I wish I had more to tell, but I don’t have much. The only thing I heard about Diana is that she was working to compile a Kincade family history from all the letters and papers accumulated across the years. Perhaps one day I will come across the published version of it. I would very much like to hear all those stories again…”
She paused with a faraway look in her eyes. After a minute, she continued.
“Ah, I do know that their older sister, Roselyn, almost had a career in music. She studied under Randolph a few years but an unavoidable thing happened; she developed rheumatism in her hands.”
“What happened to Frank and Jeremy, though, Grandmother?”
“Oh, Frank, he’s a special story. It was reported he had been killed in Alaska. And he almost died from his injuries but he recovered—not fully, however. He became paralyzed from the waist down; but it didn’t stop him. According to Artie, Frank’s brother, Randolph, was beyond ecstatic, and made his way to Alaska to be by Frank’s side. Frank went on to some rather interesting things, according to Artie. He ended up as the mayor of Anchorage and, up until his death five years ago, he had been pushing the territorial governor to apply for statehood. Frank would be so proud to know his efforts paid off with Alaska becoming a state last January. Sadly, Randolph died three years before Frank but Artie wasn’t clear on how that happened.
“As for Jeremy, not much to tell about him after the war. Last I heard, he had changed his name—well, not really changed it, but used a different name to market a program he developed: body-building. He tours across the country as Charles Atlas. It appears he has done rather well, according to my sources. I would guess as much; his time at the Olympics must have triggered the idea.”
“And Azalea? That is such a pretty name.”
“Maria, you ask a lot of questions, child; Azalea passed on in her sleep in 1926, but not before she got her husband’s writings published, and they sold quite well. Artie told me in one of her letters that before Azalea retired for bed that night, she said, “Life has been both good and bad but I wouldn’t have it any other way.”
“As to the rest of the family, I’m afraid I cannot tell you much than I already have, and…”
A tall, well-dressed man stepped up onto the porch of her and her husband’s retreat and said, “Mrs. Kennedy, Mrs. Schriever will be here shortly to pick up her daughter, and your husband called to let you know that he and your son, Jack, will be here shortly, although, according to the message, Jack’s stay will be brief as he will be resuming his campaign trail.”
“Very well, Harrison, thank you.”
Looking at her granddaughter, she smiled, saying, “Politics. A nasty profession.”
“Grandmother, I want to know more!”
“Another time, my dear. The time has simply gotten away from us, Maria. Once, I was a child like you, and now—a grown woman with so many responsibilities. One day you, too, will have responsibilities, and mark my words, young lady, if you fail in your responsibilities, the world will look at you in a whole other light.
“Artie gave me the best advice once: take care to use your time wisely, for youth one day will fade away and all that will be left are memories of days gone by.”
Shortly after, Rose Fitzgerald Kennedy entered her bedroom and spied the open box with hundreds of letters from Artie. Sitting on the bed, she ran her hand over the envelopes and smiled softly.
“You are a memory I shall never forget.”
Written By: Danceinsilence
Dalena’s Inn
I had my breakfast the way Papa always used to have it, little sardines fried crispy in crumbs and butter, coffee with three sugars and no milk, bread and vinegar and olive oil. I tipped my mug towards the rafters to reach the last drop and licked my greasy fingers like Papa would do. It's funny, when someone's gone, you do the things they did just to feel like they're back again. Magdalena watched me from the bench as she kneaded dough with red, floury knuckles. She never approved of the way Papa ate. She liked people to have respect towards her food.
The clock above the stove said six; still too early for the sun. Magdalena had hung the lamp from its usual place on the hook beside the granite bench and the open fire lit the room well enough for me to see what I was eating. The dark made itself comfortably at home in the corners and at the windows, and it was not unfriendly, but familiar. Magdalena took the pot from above the fire and poured more coffee in silence, leaving me to put the sugar in. If she wasn’t so bitter she would have done it herself, maybe even smiled a little.
“Thank you, Dalena,” I said. It seemed to fall on deaf ears. I wiped my hands on my clothes when she wasn’t looking and began to peel an orange, watching the steam from the coffee rise into the air. It was true that the lady didn’t like the way I ate and licked my fingers and spoke to her and everything else I did, but she still looked after me well. She put jasmine in my bedroom, tucked the sheets tight, made sure the jugs were full of water, fed me more than I could hold, and sent me on my way with everything I needed. On the outside, Magdalena might be looked upon as nothing more than a personified draught of chilled air; but I knew her better.
“It’s raining,” said Tino.
I hadn’t noticed him before. He sat close to the door on a tall wooden stool and clasped his hands together in his lap, big black eyes watching from a round olive face. His long hair was tousled from sleep and he had not dressed yet; he had finished his bread and milk and set his bowl down on the floor for the kitten to taste what little he had left for it. I smiled at him and he simply continued to look at me, curious and quiet, until he left his place to come to the table and look at me closer when Magdalena was busy with the frying pan, holding out one hand confidently. I put a sardine in his little palm. His browned arms and bare chest were covered in long, raised scars; but they couldn’t take away from his handsome face, not with eyes like that.
“If it’s raining, Nico can’t leave,” Tino observed, looking up at his grandmother.
“He’ll have to stay for today, then,” Magdalena spoke short and sharp, like herself. “His name is Nicodemus. Where did you get Nico from?”
“It’s easier to say,” Tino answered.
“Don’t get attached. Once you give a man a new name it’s impossible to let him go.”Magdalena's harsh face relaxed a little as she finished shaping her loaves. Sometimes it was possible to see her a little sad, and then you couldn't ever feel quite as disinterested in her, or treat her with the same coldness with which she treated you, because you felt you knew something about her that no one else did. She had been in love with Papa once. A long time ago. I wondered if maybe she called him Nico, too.
I gave Tino another sardine before he went back to his stool and he sat there nibbling it, saving the tail till last, those big black eyes sparkling with the firelight. I wanted to know who had made scars on such a gentle boy. I couldn't ask him, and I couldn't ask Magdalena, because I was afraid of the way she stared at me when I asked questions. I thought of the way Tino had saved the milk for the kitten, and I saved the last of my coffee and passed it to him because I knew Magdalena would never let him touch it. He took the mug in both hands and looked into it as though it were a never-ending well. He hesitated, then dipped one finger in and sucked it. The coffee was not warm anymore, but it was full of sugar. Boys like sugar.
"What does coffee taste like?" he asked of Magdalena, hiding the mug behind his back and looking up at her innocently.
"You wouldn't like it, Santino," she replied brusquely. "It tastes like burnt wood. Nicodemus only drinks it because he is a man and men are fools."
Tino turned back to me with his head on one side and thought for a moment. Suddenly his eyes crinkled and he smiled, a beautiful smile, so that he barely looked like a little boy anymore, but more like a dark haired angel. "I must be a fool," he whispered. “I never knew burnt wood was so sweet.” And, still grasping the mug tightly, he slipped off the stool and out of the room to find a shirt.
Chapter 23: Chadwick’s Legacy/The Paths of James and Oliver
November 5, 1844
James K. Polk Elected President
By Oliver Kincade
In a surprising turn of events, the Democratic Party nominee James
K. Polk has been elected as the 11th President of the United States of
America. Polk was expected to lose the election to Henry Clay of the
Whig Party. The Whig Party mocked Polk’s efforts during the contest,
often asking “Who is James K. Polk?” Despite these jabs, Polk’s
excellent speech skills and energetic campaigning have secured his
place in history as our country’s newest leader.
“Well, Owen, what do you think?” Oliver asked, as his cousin read the article he had written in his journal.
“I couldn’t have written it better myself,” Owen responded enthusiastically. “Keep up the great work, and soon enough you could write for the newspaper, too. Besides that, have you taken any more photographs lately?”
“I have not,” Oliver answered bashfully, remembering the photos he had taken of the sea back when he had visited Aunt Flower. “I love photography as well, but feel like I need to pick between one or the other.”
“You have budding talent as a writer, and have also shown great potential as a photographer,” Owen praised. “I wish I had an eye for imagery like you do. By all means continue to write, but also capture the images you find worthy of remembering with your camera. You could even combine your interests and become quite the force to be reckoned with.”
“I suppose you have a point,” Oliver said with a smile. “Thank you for believing in me always. I think I will go exploring in the city and see if there is anything worth recording for prosperity.”
February 15, 1845
Oliver continued writing, and built a decent scrapbook of photos as well. He had heard word of a New York portrait studio being in the city from photographer Mathew Brady. Oliver learned that Brady had photographed his favorite writer, and he was eager to see the portrait of Edgar Allan Poe that was on display.
Oliver walked into the studio, and was mesmerized by the portraits. He saw images of Daniel Webster, James Fenimore Cooper, and the one he had come to see. Mathew Brady himself noticed Oliver, and walked over to the awestruck teenager.
“Hello, young man. Are you interested in photography?” Brady asked.
“It is one of my passions,” Oliver replied. “How did you get such high detail into your pictures?”
“It is a process called daguerreotype,” Brady answered kindly. “With this method, I can create mirror images on silver-surfaced copper plates. I am going to make portraits of as many famous people that define our times as I can.”
“These really are incredible!” Oliver gushed. “I came to see the Edgar Allan Poe portrait, and you captured his essence perfectly.”
“You’ve also met Edgar Allan Poe?” Brady asked in a tone of surprise and respect. “There seems to be an interesting story to you, lad. Please, take a seat and tell me more about yourself.”
May 5, 1845
Dearest Flower,
I cannot thank you enough for your previous invitation to visit your home. You were absolutely correct about writers becoming inspired by the great sea. Not only has Oliver grown in his writing, but the sea has also fostered another passion in him, and that is photography. He is learning under Mathew Brady, whom many are referring to as the father of photojournalism. Our dear brother would be so proud of the fire burning within his son’s heart. Now, if we only knew what James was up to. Please let me know if you should learn anything about James, and I hope you and yours are well, always.
Your loving sister,
Diana
May 13, 1846
War Declared Against Mexico
By Owen Kincade
President James K. Polk has approved of a declaration of war
against Mexico. This declaration has been made based on a
prior battle between Mexican forces, General Zachary Taylor,
and his troops on the northern bank of the Rio Grande. Texas
had already been declared the 28th state in the United States on
December 29, 1845, and tensions have been present with
disputed Texas land being occupied by Mexican settlers.
outherners are in support of the war, while members of the
Whig party in the North are in opposition.
August 1847
It had been several months since he rode away from the atrocities during the Trail of Tears and for a good while he wandered aimlessly about. But he always watched his back wondering if, and maybe when, Blue Snake would come from nowhere to kill him.
He had originally planned to return to his father’s farm that was being run by Paul, but found an opportunity for a new adventure instead.
James stood before General Taylor awaiting orders. He had ultimately left the wagon trail once his heart could no longer bear the memories of the Cherokee torture that haunted him each time the wagons were in a circle.
Now, caught up in the war with Mexico, James found himself in the role of scout for Taylor’s army.
There were three goals held by President Polk and his cabinet to bring victory: General Taylor was to take northern Mexico; an army overseen by Stephen Kearny had their sights on New Mexico and California; and Winfield Scott and his army would take Mexico City.
James was traveling towards Monterrey to report back on how big of a stronghold it would be. He had learned to watch his back over time, but he couldn’t shake the feeling that he himself had been scouted for a while. An arrow flying past him confirmed his suspicions. James turned around and found himself standing before a man he had avoided for years.
“Blue Snake!” James exclaimed. “I had a feeling you had been following me for a while.”
“The time has come, Kincade. We could have remained brothers and rode into the sunset toward more adventures. But you betrayed me by looking out for your own gains by continuing the death walk. Now when the sun rises again, you will not rise with it.”
“Blue Snake, please, I made a mistake,” James protested. “I don’t want any more of your people’s bloodshed, especially yours!”
“Too late, Kincade,” Blue Snake said grimly. “We will settle this like our fathers did so long ago. Only this time, one of us will not be walking away.”
“Blue Snake, don’t do this!” James protested one more time. Blue Snake scowled, then rushed at James.
James ducked from Blue Snake’s fist and kneed him in the chest. Blue Snake grimaced, then responded with an uppercut. James staggered back, then answered with a punch that connected with Blue Snake’s mouth. Blue Snake coughed out a mouthful of blood and turned to charge at James, knocking him into a tree. Blue Snake grabbed James by his hair and slammed his head into the tree. Blue Snake then kneed James in the chest, and James slunk to the ground, despair filling his eyes.
Blue Snake began extending another fist at James’ face, but stopped before completing the blow.
Blue Snake looked at his foe, and saw no fight left in him. His once ruthless partner-in-crime looked utterly dejected. Tears flowed down James’ face. Blue Snake could easily fulfill the vow he had made before the two had parted ways previously. But this wasn’t how he had envisioned things happening.
“Where is your spirit, Kincade? Your fight?!” Blue Snake yelled. “I vowed to kill you, but doing so now would be meaningless. We were supposed to have a battle between warriors to the death, but you are no longer a warrior in my eyes!”
“You’re right,” James said, lightly sobbing. “I have nothing to show for my life. My father tried to help your people by fighting the Indian Removal Act, your father died fighting for what he believed in, and even you have been true to yourself. All I have done is tarnish my family name. Go ahead and take your revenge on me, brother; I will die and never be thought of again.”
“Get a hold of yourself, Kincade!” Blue Snake yelled once more as he slapped James across the face. “Even if I wanted to kill you, I couldn’t do so in your condition. I can’t promise that I won’t ever kill you, but as long as you are groveling and weak, taking your life is pointless.”
James looked at Blue Snake in shock. He had been certain that if they were to meet again, Blue Snake would show no mercy. He wondered what his brother’s motives could be.
“My father spoke to me in a dream, told me that you were now a sad sack that did care about our people,” Blue Snake explained. “I came at you looking for a fight to test if there was any truth to my dream, and I see that you are still my brother. Perhaps Big Warrior really did want to make up for not being there in my life by haunting my dreams.”
James smiled as he remembered a dream experience he had recently undergone.
“Before coming here I was part of the Oregon Trail,” James explained, showing signs of life again. “My time there reminded me of the atrocities I had committed against your people. My father came to me in a dream, and told me I was right to seek a new path. I intended to return to his old farm, but found myself caught up in this war with Mexico. I should have just listened to my father and gone home.”
“There is still time for that, Kincade, but I don’t mind helping you with these Mexicans first,” Blue Snake said with a smirk. “The Mexicans killed my father, and I wouldn’t mind returning the favor. I will help you with your scouting, just like old times.”
“Thank you, brother. It is great to have you back.” James smiled, feeling fire in his heart once again. “If we survive this, maybe we can still tell stories that will make our bellies hurt from laughing, after all!”
Written By: Roses311Sublime
Festive
Leaves of orange, burnt red,
ocean green, pale yellow.
Freshly cooked odors wafting throughout,
family gathered in tales of days past.
This is a day to give more than thanks;
a day to carry onto other times.
Turkey sliced, steaming glazed yams,
and a pumpkin pie awaits you.
Bellies filled,
hearts touched.
Thanksgiving,
a day of giving and receiving both.
******
May all your lives be filled with grace, love, tenderness, and kindness.
We have been through a rough patch, but we made it this far.
My hope is that you all walk away from this holiday, not just with a full
belly, but filled with great things that await each and every one of you.
Happy Thanksgiving!
Chapter 22: Opportunities of Settling and Remembering
Father Stranger, Oliver wrote before crossing it out. No, stranger was too harsh, he thought.
It was true that much of his childhood had been spent without his father. But to call him a stranger now would be erasing all of the memories that they had managed to make. A younger version of himself may have seen him as a stranger, but Oliver now understood that his father’s absence was never from a lack of care but because he had no other choice. Whether it had been for his country or to provide for his family, Chadwick never stopped caring and this was what Oliver had learn in the last two years of getting to know his father.
Oliver dipped his pen and started again: A tribute to my father, he wrote, thinking of what had gotten him to write this piece—the letter that Aunt Diana had read aloud moments ago.
June 3, 1842
Dear Diana,
It is with a heavy heart that I reply to Tyler’s letter on the news of our brother. He was beloved by so many as one of America’s heroes and a treasured sibling; that was something Chadwick and Rosie had in common, both adventurous souls who, as I used to say, were very in tune with nature. It was inevitable that Mother Earth would take them sooner than us.
I do very much understand how you are feeling right now; with my twin, Rosie, gone and William back at sea, my world is truly very small as of present. I cannot fault William, however; your letter had arrived after he had left, and my husband loves his ship.
Perhaps you and Oliver could visit me for a while. Owen can manage the newspaper now that he is older and has experience of his own. I would love some company, Diana, and Chadwick wouldn’t want you to wallow in his passing. He wanted you to remember all the memories that we siblings made together and be happy that he lived rather than grieve his passing.
The sea air here is also very calming for the soul and I’m sure Oliver would love it; many writers have been inspired by the great sea.
I do hope to hear from you soon.
Forever your sister,
Flower
Tyler was wondering how to contact James; no one had heard from him in years. But he was the only one old enough to decide what to do with the farm. Oliver would be staying with Tyler and Diana because he was too young yet to manage a farm.
“I suppose Paul could run it for the time being,” Tyler said, watching Diana, who was still sobbing on the couch.
“Have…you thought much on Flower’s offer to visit her?” Tyler spoke gently, aware of how fragile his wife was at the moment. “We could go just for a little while; I think a change of scenery would do you well.”
Diana looked up at her husband; she didn’t want to go—how could she find the strength?—but Tyler was right and, as Flower said, maybe Oliver would enjoy the sea. “I suppose. I have yet to visit Norfolk.”
Tyler smiled at that; it had been the most that she had said since reading Flower’s letter. Hopefully, Flower would be able to help with finding James.
May 1843
James was on the Oregon Trail with a wagon train of a thousand pioneers; after he parted ways with Blue Snake, James, along with the other soldiers, had continued to force the Cherokee to the west where all soldiers were dismissed on arrival. James’ instinct had failed and left him wandering again, alone. He had heard a rumor that Blue Snake had joined the tribe members that had escaped removal by hiding in mountain caves and dens, but all the same, he knew to seek his brother again would be to walk toward death, and so James trudged on.
He had returned to his old ways when he caught word of the organization of a wagon train in Missouri. It was to be the biggest one yet and this had been the third time that James had heard of these wagon trains. His interest had been more than sufficiently piqued when he met Jesse Applegate, the man who was now the leader of the wagon train.
Applegate had told James that if he had nowhere to go, he might as well join the wagon train. The man knew that James’ horse could be an asset for the journey. Applegate had spoken of gold and the great potential of western Oregon; it had all sounded very good. But, of course, James was beginning to wonder if this journey would really be worth it.
Many of the pioneers wanted the land, a homestead. That wasn’t what James wanted and this journey had turned out more distressing than he could have guessed. It wasn’t the risk of bandits, Indian attacks, or even disease that worried him. What worried him was one of the most pathetic things. The travelers of the wagon train would park their wagons in a circle at night as a makeshift stockade. A stockade that reminded James of the Cherokee, and now every night when the pioneers drove their animals into the stockade, James would see the Cherokee and their lashed backs, their screams as they were driven into the stockade.
James had watched the men round up the tribe and he didn’t care then; he didn’t bat an eye when his mother had died or when he had shot those travelers…so why? Why now, after so many years, did some wagons in a circle cause these emotions?
June 21, 1843
Hope was reading a tale that Oliver had written while the boy sat next to her. Oliver had started coming over every week since returning from Flower’s home and he would always bring some of his writing for Hope to review.
“Another very good piece, Oliver; you have described my mother’s home so beautifully and I can see the influence from Edgar Allan Poe in this one,” Hope said, finally facing Oliver to see him smiling a happy grin.
“I thank you. Edgar Allan Poe is my favorite writer.”
“Is that so? Well, how would you like to meet him?” Owen said while keeping his eyes on Samuel and Maria—the two had been little troublemakers since the moment they’d learned to crawl.
Oliver stared at Owen with bug eyes. “Meet…Edgar Allan Poe?”
Owen and Hope looked at each other; they were amused by this youth.
“Yes. I’m sure you know that he published a book today, and so the journal has secured an interview with him and…I also got him to agree to review one of your stories during dinner tonight,” Owen said.
Oliver nearly collapsed hearing this. “Oh, my goodness, I must hurry home and decide what I want to show him!” The boy barely finished uttering the words before he was out the door and away from the chuckling older cousins.
February 17, 1844
Dear Mother and Father,
I apologize for not writing to you until now. The last few years have been very bizarre, with my best friend dying on the journey and myself having married his wife, Roberta. Truthfully, the thought of marrying Roberta hadn’t felt right at first, but Frank had left us, and I had grown fond of Roberta and her children.
Know that I am well and have settled at Sutter’s Fort, where I work as a tanner in the area. The work of turning animal hide into leather is truly fascinating and has acquired me a few friends. I am currently drinking with them at a tavern, which is how I’ve been able to send this letter, actually. The barman informed me that this tavern also acts as a cheap postal service; rest assured, taverns are not places I visit often—they are much too far from the fort and we are only here to celebrate a friend’s fortieth birthday.
My friends are very merry, but Captain Sutter…he is a stern man that rules his fort with an iron grip and the fact that he built this fort for the sole purpose of making himself a monarch is something I have yet to decide on how to feel about.
Hopefully, this letter reaches you. I don’t know when I’ll be able to write again, but how are things at home? Does William write often? And what about Hope? I do miss you, Mother, Father, and my siblings.
Your loving son,
Randolph
May 24, 1844
Samuel Morse Sends America’s First Telegraph
For years, letters have been our only companion
for distance communication and so it is with both
excitement and the slight unease of an aging mind
that I tell you of the first-ever telegraph sent from
Washington to Baltimore today.
The message was “What hath God wrought.” Ominous,
but it brings about much opportunity…and some adjusting
for me to get on with.
William was sitting in front of the college of dental surgery in Baltimore as he read the article his cousin had written. Dentistry had been a truly amazing field to study; it was one that William had wanted to study ever since his father started telling tales of pirates knocking sailors’ teeth out and he had told those very often—so often, in fact, that William sometimes wondered if this had been a form of conditioning, but of course, it was not.
He had always had an interest in science and, combining that with his attention to detail from a childhood of constructing model ships, dentistry just made the most sense to him. William looked at the article again. Baltimore and his future were certainly appearing promising.
Written By: LiannaC
Chapter 21: Of Losses and Gains
February 10, 1840
Diana,
With winter steadily coming to an end, I finally came to the conclusion of what my plans are for the farm. I hope to build the homestead into something large and magnificent, now that I have the time. I am relieved to be far away from all of the politics and laws that plagued and disgusted me so in Washington; I am overjoyed to pour my attention into the work on the farm.
Writing you more often has truly served to help me. Admittedly, I still often feel lonely, lost, and empty, but I am happy and even feel blessed to be a more certain presence in Oliver’s life during this time.
In my last letter to you, I mentioned that Oliver and I are still strangers, hardly ever speaking. As of late, though, he and I have been able to share more than just five sentences daily. He is still closed off and withdrawn, but I feel as if I am finally getting to know my son. I have learned that he has a great passion for literature. He spends most of his days reading one piece of writing after another. I am both concerned and intrigued by this interest of his...
It worries me to hear of Rosie’s growing vehemence toward Jackson; if you possibly can, try to focus her attention elsewhere. I fear what she might do in this dangerous state of seeking revenge. Remind her of the resulting consequences that her actions will have on Lily...I beg you to speak to her; she will listen to you.
Chadwick gritted his teeth, leaning back into the chair. For a moment, he contemplated informing Diana of his recent dizziness and intermittent loss of sight, telling her of his fears for his own health. Deciding against it, he ended off the letter, his eyes barely registering the penned words.
Early June 1840
The sounds of the bustling city swarmed around Owen and Diana as they strolled outside, a few streets away from the newspaper office. Both were busy with their own thoughts.
It had been a few months now since Chadwick first started sending regular letters to Diana, something that simultaneously delighted and worried Owen. The sudden onslaught of letters haunted him, making him question if his uncle was truly doing as well as he claimed to be. He knew that his mother was also very much concerned for her brother.
“What is the latest news from Uncle Chadwick and Cousin Oliver?” He asked. “I saw the pile of mail this morning.”
“Oh, the usual news. The homestead is not developing as well as he hoped. Oliver still keeps mainly to himself. The weather. Advice on how to keep our dear, revengeful Rosie at bay,” she sighed. “You might be more interested in hearing the latest from Norfolk.”
“Did one of my cousins finally settle down?” He chuckled absentmindedly, his eyes scanning around them.
“No, but William has decided upon moving to Baltimore.” She paused.
“Flower said that he wishes to join the college of dental surgery which has been established there.”
“He finally made up his mind on a career, has he?” The reply came, but was left unanswered.
“I think I will write Flower and tell her to send him to come and visit us first. Maybe he’ll find New York to be a better opportunity.”
“By the time your letter reaches Aunt Flower, Mother Di, William will have already left hearth and home. I do wish there were a faster method of communication available.” He sighed.
“That reminds me, dear. We have a special guest that Tyler invited for dinner. He supposedly has some remarkable idea to help with faster communication,” she breathed in excitement.
“What is his name?”
“Samuel Morse.”
Early September 1840
Owen rushed up the stairs, fully aware that he was late for dinner.
Barging through the door, he was halted at the sight of two young people sitting on the sofa. The woman was a much younger resemblance of his Aunt Roselyn and the young man vaguely reminded him of his Uncle Farragut.
“Owen,” Diana said, rising from her seat, “you are just in time for dinner. Hope and William have agreed to join us tonight. It seems that my letter did reach their mother in time.” She smiled, a twinkle in her eye.
“How long do you plan on staying in New York?” Owen asked William, as the three cousins strolled down a street of New York the following morning.
“I’m only here for two weeks. After that,” William replied, “I am heading toward Baltimore. I only allowed myself to be persuaded in visiting New York because of the Society of Dental Surgeons.” He smiled at his sister. “Hope decided to join me; I’m not sure if it was for keeping me company or for the adventure that, at times, accompany such a journey,” he chuckled.
“Not concerned about your suitor back in Norfolk, Hope?” Owen teased, resulting in a blush from her side.
“No, since there is none.”
“I don’t believe it. My pretty cousin has neither suitor nor beau? Are the men down there blind?”
“Yes, I do believe,” William laughed. “None of them seem interested in my sister; those fools.”
“The right one just hasn’t come along yet,” the sweet answer slipped over her lips. She smiled, before addressing her cousin, “Owen, you must take pity on me and escort me around someday. I am determined to experience as much as possible of everything in New York during the next two weeks.”
“Whatever may fancy your interest, I’ll be sure to take you there,” he replied with a grin.
September 28, 1840
Dearest Mother,
William departed for Baltimore on Saturday. I am no longer to accompany him, instead staying behind in New York. I hope you will not be too upset to learn that I am not returning home.
Last Wednesday, my cousin, Owen, and I took a stroll down the streets of New York. He was once again ensuring my entertainment, since William mainly spent his time at the Society of Dental Surgeons, or wherever else he fancied. Owen and I discussed our plans for the future, his being to continue working on the newspaper here in New York.
I discovered that I had no ambition or plans for the future. Having learned the craft from you, I have a seamstress’s life ahead of me. But, oh Mother, how my cup came to be filled when we returned to the Kincade home. Owen asked me to stay and marry him.
We were joined in matrimony on the twenty-fifth; we wished to have at least one of my family at the ceremony as well, therefore we were swift to marry whilst William was here.
I apologize at having gotten married so soon, without either your or Father’s permission. It was just that neither Owen nor I could wait to be wed.
I do miss you, Mother, but the future suddenly sparkles with opportunity for me.
Your loving daughter,
Hope Kincade
Mid-April 1841
Tearfully, Flower pulled Randolph into a hug.
“I wish all of you wouldn’t leave me to myself here; first, William and Hope, and now you, too,” she cried. “Why do you have to go so far away?”
“Ma,” he laughed, “California is a land of opportunity right now. I am a big boy; I think I can handle this treacherous journey. Recall the adventures of Uncle Chadwick, his travels—”
“That is exactly what I have been thinking of every night recently,” she interrupted. “I am so frightened...what will happen to you; you, out there on your own?”
“Well, do not fear too much, Ma. I’m joining Frank and his family; they will take good care of me, and make sure that I don’t die out there.” He grinned, untangling himself from his mother’s grasp. “Nothing will happen to me, Ma. A couple of years from now, you’ll receive a letter from me, and who knows, maybe I’ll have struck it rich over there.”
“Do you have to leave for Missouri today?” she asked, wishing for just one more day with her son.
“Ma...”
Randolph’s Journal
May 1841
The journey has started well, and I find myself in good company. Frank Hudson and his wife are very brave to take on this journey, considering that their little girl, May Augusta, is now only two. She is a true sweetheart, and I have come to love her a great deal. Her mother, Roberta, is currently with child, and I fear for her and her unborn baby’s health, yet she is determined to see this journey through.
Frank has not changed much since our childhood years. He is still fun, rowdy, and adventurous. It feels like we never lost contact at all; just always have been friends.
June 1841
This journey has proved to be more trying than I first thought it to be...I have been going over my reasons for coming along in the first place. But life won’t always be easy. Some struggles will come along, and I have to learn and face these hardships.
Once we reach California, I think that I will learn a trade, instead of continuing life with the Hudson’s. I do adore little May, and she seems to see me as some hero, wanting to stick to my side every single day. I can’t always be glued to another family; I have to make my own way.
July 1841
Though the road has had its struggles and difficulties, it has not been filled with as much loss. Then, a few days ago, a tribe of Indians attacked the wagons. Frank was badly wounded in this skirmish; he didn’t survive the night. I had to bury my childhood friend, console his widow, and carry his weak child back to the wagon.
The shine of this adventure has worn off. I miss home and Ma. But I am needed here. I refuse to fall back and return, though I probably have opportunity to turn around.
Little May has fallen very sick. Roberta has also been unwell. I don’t know what plagues them, but I’m afraid that I’ll lose them as well...
August 9, 1841
Roselyn lay in the dark of the steamer’s cabin, with Lily in her arms. She could not wait to reach their destination, and to have her thoughts focused on something other than the ever-growing hate, at least for a few weeks. Once she returned, though, she fully intended to continue with her plans; plans that she had put on hold, for the sake of Lily’s recent ill health.
Once they returned...she would make Jackson pay for all the hurt and pain that he had sown. She would make him hate every day of his life, but he’d never have the pleasure of rectifying his mistakes, as he’d drop dead after having endured enough pain; she would make sure of it.
A great boom suddenly resounded through the air, the steamer shivering violently. Roselyn and Lily shot up, listening to the screams that filled the air. Fear seeped into Roselyn’s heart, as she scooted herself and Lily off of the bed and they rushed out of the cabin.
The crackling of a rapidly burning fire met their ears; a fire that would not spare anything it came across. A sob spilled over Lily’s lips, as the young girl immediately seemed to sense their future.
“We have to get to the deck” were the last words that Lily ever heard from her mother’s lips, the rest of what spilled over being smothered by screams of pain and agony, as the flames claimed so many of the souls onboard.
August 10, 1841
Chadwick,
Having taken your advice to focus Rosie’s attention on something other than her hatred of Jackson, Tyler and I persuaded her to take a trip away from her duties, responsibilities, and thoughts.
A medical colleague and friend of Rosie’s informed her, a few months ago, of a medical college that was instituted in Chicago, back in 1837. This caught her attention, so Tyler and I offered to help pay her way in order for her to visit this college. She seemed excited to visit the college and learn more about the methods and subjects taught there.
The steamer that was to take her and Lily to Chicago went up in flames yesterday. Most of the people on board were burned to death; Rosie and Lily also perished.
I feel so lost, knowing that both are gone for good. I feel so guilty, knowing that it was Tyler and I who were adamant about her leaving. Oh, if only we had thought of some other place for her to visit...
I wish you could come and visit, brother. Your latest letters have proved to me that you are not well; maybe you should come join us in New York for a few weeks.
Diana
September 10, 1841
Mother,
Finally, I can share some joyous news with you again. I will attempt to keep this letter short, only covering the most important points.
On August thirty-first, the day drawing to midnight, Samuel Tyler Kincade was born. What was quite startling and worrying for both Owen and myself was that after he was born, I remained in labor for a few more hours. I experienced great pain and feared the worst.
On the brink of September the first, still very early in the morning, a little girl joined her brother in this world. She is much more petite in size than Samuel; she also seems slightly weaker.
Though we all feared for her life, she has pulled through and proved to be quite strong. I praise God for such grace, and Mother Di for standing by my side through the worry and uncertainty regarding little Maria Veronica’s life.
I wish you could visit us, Mother, but I am happy to hear that business has been so well and has kept you occupied plenty during this time.
Much love,
Hope
Randolph’s Journal
September 1841
We have abandoned wagons and possessions. What else can I add to that? I am starting to feel a loss of the right words to pen my thoughts...
Roberta gave birth to a little girl; I think it was sometime during the first days of September. It was before we abandoned the wagons. Little Frannie Hudson is weak and fragile. As I write this, she is faintly whimpering in Roberta’s arms. My heart goes out to this strong woman who is bravely clinging onto her daughter, praying for her future, but accepting that which will most likely happen.
October 1841
Today, we crossed some river, the name of which I care not to recall. The end of our journey—it is approaching. I believe this, still clinging to my last bit of faith. Just as I believe that Roberta, Frannie, and May will live to build a new life for themselves in California. I am considering taking them in and caring for them. I feel as if I owe Frank that, as if he can’t rest in peace when his wife and children are left to care for themselves...
December 1841
Roberta and the girls are still with me, all three of them fighting to stay alive. I have made my offer to Roberta; she is considering it. In the meantime, we are heading toward Fort Sutter, where we hope to be better treated than we were at Marsh’s rancho...
Late February 1842
Chadwick stifled a coughing fit, aware that his sister’s ears wouldn’t fail her if he were to make even a squeak. Diana’s attention seemed to be wholly focused on young Oliver, and yet, her eyes darting back to Chadwick proved that she was still well aware of his presence.
Noticing a commotion ahead of them, his sister and son rushed toward the crowd, forcing him to quicken his heavy pace. Upon seeing a man caught amongst his adoring fans, Chadwick raised his voice, in order to be heard by his sister.
“Who is that man?”
“His name is Charles Dickens; he is visiting from England,” she yelled back. “Our newspaper interviewed him a few days ago. He seems like a decent fellow.”
After observing the crowds for a little while longer, the three finally decided to head back toward Diana and Tyler’s apartment. Oliver’s face glowed as he walked in silent contemplation.
“One day, I’m also going to write stories,” he finally piped up. “I’ll be printed in the paper, like Poe. I’ll be loved by many readers, like Dickens. I’ll be famous.” His eyes burned with passion, as his mind sped toward the future, leaving his father and aunt to themselves.
Randolph’s Journal - March 1842
Roberta and I have married. The little girls are healthy and growing stronger day by day. Captain Sutter has provided me the opportunity to become a tanner in this area. I have come to learn about the trade and find it to be an intriguing career for the future.
April 15, 1842
Flower,
There is no easy way to say this, therefore I will be brief. As you are aware, Chadwick and Oliver came to visit us late in February. It was Chadwick’s wish to stay until mid-March, before returning back home to Texas.
Shortly before the date of their departure, Chadwick collapsed one evening. He was in poor health and very weak for a few weeks. Diana tended and cared for him as well as she could, but he passed away on the seventh of this month.
Diana has been inconsolable. I fear for her own health and wellbeing after this tragic loss...
Tyler Wilson
Written By: GLD