Far West: The Diary of Eleanor Higgins Read online

  FAR WEST: The Diary of Eleanor Higgins

  by

  Linell Jeppsen

  Kindle Edition

  Copyright © 2016 Linell Jeppsen

  Wolfpack Publishing

  48 Rock Creek Road

  Clinton, Montana 59825

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced by any means without the prior written consent of the publisher, other than brief quotes for reviews.

  ISBN: 978-1-62918-947-5

  Table of Contents:

  Part One

  Feb 22, 1876

  Feb 23, 1876

  Feb 25, 1876

  Feb 26, 1876

  March 5, 1876

  March 8, 1876

  March 4th, 1876

  March 7th 1876

  March 22, 1876

  March 23, 1876

  March 24th, 1876

  March 24th, 1876

  March 26th, 1876

  March 27th, 1876

  March 30th, 1876

  April 3rd, 1876

  April 6th, 1876

  Part Two

  April 6th, 1876

  April 8th, 1876

  April 11, 1876

  April 12th, 1876

  April 12th, 1876

  April 13, 1876

  April 15, 1876

  April 18, 1876

  April 25, 1876

  April 27, 1876

  May 1, 1876

  May 2, 1876

  May 3, 1876

  May 6, 1876

  Part Three

  May 12, 1876

  May 27, 1876

  May 30, 1876

  June 2, 1876

  June 7, 1876

  June 12, 1876

  June 15, 1876

  June 19, 1876

  June 20, 1876

  June 21, 1876

  June 25, 1876

  June 26, 1876

  June 28, 1876

  June 29, 1876

  June 30, 1876

  July 4, 1876

  July 5, 1876

  July 5, 1876

  July 10, 1876

  July 13 1876

  July 18, 1876

  Aug I, 1876

  Aug 3rd, 1876

  Epilogue: July 7, 1878

  Author’s Note

  An Excerpt from Deadman’s Lament, by Linell Jeppsen

  About the Author

  FAR WEST : The Diary of Eleanor Higgins

  Part One

  Feb 22, 1876

  Dear Diary,

  My name is Eleanor Higgins, except that most folks call me Nellie, which I hate. Nelly makes me sound like a little kid but in four days I will turn sixteen. That makes me a woman in my book, although Daddy says I’m still just a stupid child.

  My father, Pastor Frank Higgins, is a mean man. He beats my mamma, me and all us kids, even though he dresses up in his black suit every Sunday morning and preaches the word of God on high to the people in my hometown.

  My family and I live just outside of Sioux City, Iowa. We live in a nice house (the parish) snugged up close to the Missouri River. Daddy’s church is pretty nice too, with two stained-glass windows and solid oak pews but there is always a strange smell inside it-like fish or something equally noisome, has gone bad in some hidden corner. Father says it’s the stench of discarded sin.

  We have a few acres of land which we could farm, I suppose, but Daddy spends all his time writing sermons for our neighbors up and down the river valley.

  There are the Adam’s family (they are Scottish, I think) and the Winston’s (just plain Americans). They have a crazy old woman living in their upstairs attic. She is Mrs. Winston’s mamma, I guess, but she wails and moans like a haint whenever anyone comes to call. I don’t like to go there unless my mother is with me.

  Then there are the O’Neal’s with their brood of thirteen children and the McNabs, a starchy old couple who sit the day long on their front porch glaring out at the world with suspicious eyes.

  They are our closest neighbors but there are many more on both sides of the river. There is a church on the other side, too. Episcopal, I think. It is not nearly as big or grand as our church, but many of Daddy’s parishioners will head to that church, instead of my father’s when they haven’t got the nickel to pay for a ferry ride. Daddy says those folks will pay in hell for their fickle ways.

  My father is a Lutheran minister and he believes that the fire of hell is always waiting… hidden just beyond sight like a snake in tall grass. That serpent is forever coiled up and ready to strike a sinner with its horrid, juicy fangs. He also believes the most everyone, except for himself, is a sinner just beggin’ to be bit.

  Me, I have a hard time with that notion. Sure, there are bad people out there-real sinners like bank robbers and bandits, or murderers like that Stanley Winthrop who got hanged by the neck in the town square last year for killing his wife and child. Daddy took me and the rest of the family to see it. I had a good time although, to be honest, I pretty much looked away when that fat man went dropping through the hole in the floor of the hanging platform.

  My sister Patsy turned kind of green and threw up, although she claimed it was the heat and “the curse” what made her go cringy like that. No matter, as soon as we headed back home, my daddy pulled the wagon to the side of the road, picked up his wooden paddle and beat my sis hard on the back of her petticoats for all the passers-by to see!

  I wish I could have done something for Patsy that day… anything to take away her shame and embarrassment. But I didn’t dare and neither did my mamma or siblings. We knew then, like we’ve always known, to defy father’s harsh manner means my mamma will suffer for our sins. That is how Daddy keeps us all in line-by torturing our mamma, Ellen.

  Patsy had stared at me that day while my daddy beat her, her face red with pain and humiliation. I could tell she was begging me not to interfere, although I wanted to scream at him to stop! But I kept my mouth shut and a month later she up and left home. I thought my heart would break but she went to live with Chloe Hammond, my mamma’s spinster sister in Chicago, Illinois and she seems real happy now.

  Patsy was seventeen at that time, and my best friend (she was who gave me this diary). Now she writes regular and gives me lots of news about the bustling city and fashions and, although I’m not supposed to tell anyone, her new beau who goes by the name, Marcus Tremont. He is studying to be a solicitor and Patsy thinks he’s going to ask her to be his wife.

  I won’t tell anybody except you, dear diary, especially my father who would, most likely, jump on the wagon and drag Patsy home by the ear if he knew she was sweet on some man!

  Anyway, although my birthday isn’t until Saturday next, my mother picked up the mail in town this morning and saw this parcel addressed to me. Knowing my daddy would think of a diary as some sort of vain and nasty sin, she snuck it up to my room and told me to hide it away so father would never see it.

  So, that’s what I did. My mamma gave me an old quill and some ink too and now I’m huddled under the covers writing these thoughts down. I know I’m not a very good writer, but my diary doesn’t care about that, I’m sure.

  It’s wonderful to have someone to talk to… I love my little sister Annie but she’s only seven and would not understand the feelings going on in my head… besides she’s so scared of Daddy she might accidentally spill the beans about my gift.

  My little brother David is sweet but he’s only five years old. Of all of us kids, he is the one Father picks on most. Davey’s bottom is so black and blue from Daddy’s paddle he can barely sit down most days. So, no. If I’m going to get things off my chest, it’s going to be here, on these pages, with no one to see my words but me.
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  I know that, some day, I’ll be able to take my leave. Either I will get married, or maybe Aunt Chloe will let me come to stay with her once Patsy gets married and moves into her own home. In the meanwhile, someone needs to stay here and keep an eye out for Mamma and my siblings.

  I know that my daddy will beat one of them to death if someone doesn’t keep watch and, for now, that someone is me.

  I just wish he wasn’t so big… and scary.

  Getting tired now. I know that tomorrow will be busy because we’re going into town for supplies, so I’d better get some sleep.

  Good night Diary,

  Nel Higgins

  P.S. Lying in the dark and thinking about my daddy, I wish he would just die!

  P.P.S. I take that back! Good night again, Diary. I am going to blow out the candle now and pray to God for my wicked thoughts.

  Feb 23, 1876

  Dear Diary,

  Well, it turned out to be a horrible day, thanks to Daddy. It started out well enough. Mamma seemed happy and my father had been called in to talk to the Lutheran diocese about his church and congregation. He is always pleased to prove how righteous he is to the church elders.

  We headed into town in the wagon and Daddy surprised us by saying we could get two bolts of fabric for new dresses instead of just one. I swear, most of the time Mamma, me and Annie look like cookie-cutter copies of each other, always wearing the same, drab but sturdy gingham.

  I gazed at my mamma in surprise and saw her once pretty face blush pink with pleasure and excitement. Looking closer, I saw myself reflected in her visage, although my coloring is more intense. Her faded strawberry-blonde hair is streaked with gray and her dark blue eyes peer bashfully through folds of papery wrinkles.

  My hair is as auburn as a copper penny and springs from my scalp in a frenzy of corkscrew curls. My eyes haven’t had a chance to fade yet and I know they are my best feature because they are as blue and round as robin’s eggs. But, like a robin’s egg, my skin is speckled all over in ruddy freckles.

  My Daddy once took my chin in his hand and shook his head in disgust. “You are the very definition of ‘Jezebel’, Nelly,” he murmured. “Best take care, girl, afore you burn in hell…”

  Anyway, like I said, it was a happy start to the day. It took about an hour to ride into town to the mercantile, and Daddy left for his meeting while we shopped for supplies. Filled with excitement, Mamma and I went immediately to the sewing section in back of the store. Mamma had promised Annie and Davey a penny a piece to buy hard candy so those two were standing in front of the shop-owners counter staring at the colorful display of confections.

  The materials were dazzling! There were pink silks and emerald green velvets, lace ribbons and pretty, pearl buttons. I almost drooled with delight but even I knew those beautiful fabrics were out of the question for the likes of us. Going further back, we saw plenty of bolts that were more appropriate for a pastor’s wife and children.

  There was one that was fairly plain but not too ugly-a gray cotton with darker gray checks. There was a lot of that particular material which meant, if we were careful, we could also fashion a new shirt for Davey from the left-overs. Mamma nodded her head and I picked the roll off the shelf and walked it over to the counter for purchase.

  When I walked back, I saw my mamma staring at a piece of striped, pale peach and green taffeta. The look in her eyes was so wistful, so… desirous I almost gasped out loud. “Oh Mamma, could we? Please?” I said, just barely managing not to jump up and down with excitement.

  She looked torn and then, after checking the price tag, she nodded with a smile. “Yes, we shall, Nelly. If I work quickly, you’ll have a pretty new dress to wear for your birthday!”

  I shrieked with joy and snatched the material out of her arms before she could change her mind. We walked to the counter, paid for the children’s peppermint sticks and finished the rest of our more mundane shopping-flour, beans, ink, salt and the like.

  After everything was added up and paid for, Mamma asked the shop-keeper if he would please wrap the material in paper so it wouldn’t get dusty on the trip home (I knew she was trying to hide it from Daddy’s prying eyes). He complied and had just finished wrapping it up tight when father walked in the door.

  I knew something was wrong the minute I saw his face. His pleased smile was gone and his brow was lowered like a storm cloud. Mamma’s happy grin disappeared instantly and she ducked her head in anxiety. Even the youngsters looked guilty and stared at the dusty floorboards under their feet.

  “Let’s go!” he snarled and we all jumped to do his bidding. Within minutes, we were heading back home, although he had promised to buy us ices at the town park before we left town.

  Halfway home, he turned to my mother. “They want me to go to California, Ellen. They say the Catholics are taking over out west and they want me-us-to represent God-the real, Protestant God in San Francisco.”

  My mother turned pale and said, “But, Frank! I thought that ministers with families were not subject to that kind of recruitment. We… I am too old to undertake such a trek!”

  In answer, Daddy slapped her so hard she almost flew out the other side of the wagon. The children screamed and I couldn’t help myself. I hollered, “Daddy, stop it!”

  He yanked up hard on the reins, pulled the wagon to the side of the road and lunged over the driver’s bench. I, of course, scrambled backwards as fast as I could but in the process, my feet scraped over the paper wrapping the dress-material and tore it wide open so that the peach and green taffeta gleamed like a jewel in the afternoon’s sultry sunlight.

  My father stopped and stared down at the fabric in shock. His mouth dropped open and he whispered, “What’s this? What in the name of God is this?”

  Mamma, who was busy wiping blood away from a split lip, said, “It’s taffeta, Frank, that’s all. It’s very proper and it was on sale!”

  “So, wife, the devil bought you cheap, eh?” he grated.

  Ellen shook her head. “No! Frank, there is nothing wrong with a tiny bit of color in clothing. It is not a sin to wear the colors of spring, is it?”

  Father seemed to be speechless for the moment, but his mouth turned upside down and his cheeks turned brick red. He bent over, picked the parcel up and tossed it to the side of the road. Then, he turned back to me and kicked me in the ribs as hard as he could.

  I heard my mamma and siblings cry out in shock but I had gotten the wind knocked out of me and I spent the rest of the trip curled up in a ball, trying not to vomit on our newly purchased supplies.

  We made it back home, eventually, but everyone was sent to their rooms to reflect upon their sins. Once I was alone, I took my old gingham dress off and inspected my ribcage which hurt to the touch and was turning my freckled skin blue, red and purple.

  Now, I’m lying in bed and trying not to wail. A sharp pain jabs me if I take too deep of a breath, and my heart aches at the loss of the pretty material. Mainly, though, I am wracked with guilt because Daddy is beating on my mamma again.

  In all the hubbub, I had almost forgotten about heading to California. In a way, the trip sounded kind of exciting, but right now all I can feel is despair. My father has always made a show out of punishing my mother, but this time it’s going on too long.

  I can hear his heavy fists fall and mamma’s groans, and all the while his mumbled rants as he reads different passages from his battered, old bible. “The Lord says”, Thud… Gasp. “The bible tells us,” Crash… Groan.

  Oh, Diary, I hate him! I hate him, I hate him!

  There, the door to their bedroom just slammed shut and I hear his footsteps heading down the stairs. Straining my ears, I can make out my mother’s muffled tears, so at least I can sleep now, knowing she’s still alive.

  I let the tears come and feel my broken rib(s) grinding against each other as I slowly fall asleep.

  Goodnight, dear Diary~ Goodnight.

  Feb 25, 1876

  Dear Diary,

/>   Sorry I didn’t get back to you sooner, but it’s been a bad couple of days. I think that when Daddy beat my mother two nights ago, he broke something inside her. She hasn’t been able to get out of bed since then and the three times I was allowed into her bedroom she just stares with empty eyes at the wall, although I call her name over and over.

  Daddy has been quiet-almost too quiet-since then. He does nothing but sit in the parlor for hours on end, reading his bible and jotting long lines of figures down on a sheet of paper.

  So, it’s up to me to take care of the children, fix the meals, do the laundry and try to care for Mamma, which is hard because my left ribs hurt like the dickens every time I move. Oh well, like I said, someone has to do it and it looks like that someone is me.

  The good news-it’s my birthday! There will be no celebrating around here though, that’s for sure. This has been a somber household since our trip into town, although my brother and sister surprised me this morning with a gift.

  I could hardly believe my eyes when Davey shuffled up to me in his shy way and pulled a long braided ribbon from his pants pocket.

  “This is from Mamma, Anna and me, sister. Happy birthday,” he whispered.

  Three lengths of ribbon (red, gold and blue) were braided together to form a chain on which hung a little silver cameo brooch. I opened it with a gasp and saw a tiny drawing of my mamma from when she was younger on one side and a new rendering of Annie and Davey on the other side.

  Tears filled my eyes. I don’t know how long Mamma, Anna and Davey have been planning this scheme but it must have been for quite a while. The kid’s portraits are sketched in new ink, which means my mother drew it on the sly.

  My father has been kept in the dark, I know. He believes that personal pictures, paintings … even mirrors are a testimony to the worst kind of vanity and thus, a sin. He would never have granted permission for such a vain gift, which means that Mamma and the kids have kept this present a secret.

  Annie and Davey were staring up at me with wide, hollow eyes and I knelt down and folded them in my arms. “Thank you, thank you! Oh, I love it so much-thank you!” I whispered as they wept and trembled on my shoulders.