The Woman Who Loved Jesse James Read online

  “What are you doing hiding out here in the woods?” I demanded, drawing on anger to cover my confusion. I couldn’t quite believe the dashing man before me was my whiny cousin Jesse.

  “I might ask you the same question.” He replaced the hat on his head and regarded me from beneath the rakish angle of the brim.

  “I came for a breath of fresh air and the coolness of the shade,” I said.

  “I wanted a good look at the crowd before I ventured forth.” He nodded toward the gathering. “Who’s the stocky man with the frock coat and the pistols—standing by the punch keg?”

  “That’s Sheriff T. Wayne Henry. Why?”

  “Is he Union or Secesh?”

  “Southern. He fought at Antietam.”

  Jesse nodded. “Anyone here who might have Northern sympathies?”

  “No. My family and the groom’s are both firmly with the Confederacy.”

  “Then I suppose it’s safe for me to join the party.” But he made no move to leave.

  “Is it true you’re riding with Quantrill’s men?” I asked.

  “I have the honor of serving with Quantrill’s lieutenants, Bill Anderson and Archie Clement, as we strive to further the Southern cause.”

  “Bloody Bill” and Archie Clement were well known to Missourians. Among Southern sympathizers they were revered for their success in wiping out whole groups of Union soldiers in daring raids on encampments and troop trains. Unlike the regular Army, the guerrillas were free to choose their own targets, and to attack and withdraw with lightning speed. That a not-yet seventeen-year old could distinguish himself in such a company of seasoned fighters spoke volumes about Jessie’s abilities and made me see him in a new light.

  I began to walk along the edge of the trees and Jesse fell into step beside me. “Are you really worried about Union soldiers disrupting the wedding party?” I asked.

  “I’ll leave and draw them away before I let that happen.”

  I stumbled on a fallen branch and he took my elbow to steady me, his hand remaining there for a heartbeat too long. I glanced up and found his eyes fixed on me with uncommon intensity. “What is it?” I asked, annoyed at being the object of such scrutiny.

  “Last time I saw you, you were a skinny girl,” he said. “You’ve grown into a fine woman.”

  My cheeks burned and I looked away, reminding myself that this was the boy who had ruined my skirt with mudballs, the one who had cried and run to his mother when I dared to retaliate by firing a rock at him.

  But this was no boy standing beside me. Jesse’s voice was the deep, rich tones of a man, and he had a man’s build. A man’s capable hands reached out and guided me over a second fallen branch, and this time they did not release me. He leaned close and I caught the smells of leather and gun oil that clung to him. “Did you truly not recognize me just now?” he asked.

  “It’s been a few years since we last met,” I said. “I was thinking of you as a boy still.”

  “I’ve done and seen things no boy should do or see,” he said solemnly.

  A shout rose from among the wedding guests, distracting him. He looked across the clearing to where his brother Frank, who Jesse always called Buck, stood with a group of young men. The men were surrounded by a bevy of young women, including Rachel, Fanny and Esme. “I’d better join my friends,” he said, releasing my arm. “Good afternoon, Cousin.”

  He nodded, then strode away. I stood as still and calm as the atmosphere on a sultry afternoon, nothing within me moving, though the air around me had the heavy, charged atmosphere of a storm about to break.

  The handsome, young bushwhackers swept into the celebration like a cool mountain breeze, enlivening the party with a jolt of energy and daring. Women circled them like butterflies around blossoms and the men obliged by flattering and flirting, paying court to each young miss with equal fervor. Darkness fell and lamps were lit and hung in the trees and from the eaves of buildings, and large canvas sheets were spread on the ground for dancing.

  The band began a lively reel and the young men and women paired off. I was more than pleased when one of the bushwhackers, a handsome young man named Cole Younger, bowed before me. “May I have the pleasure of a dance?” he asked.

  On trembling legs, I stood and put my hand in his. “Certainly,” I said.

  Though forbidden to dance, Esme and I had practiced the steps of the waltz and the quadrille in my attic bedroom, humming to ourselves as we turned, twirled, and promenaded. We were determined to be as accomplished as the young women in the novels, also forbidden, that we read in secret—hours spent in the seclusion of the woods behind my house, huddled over the pages of Pride and Prejudice, Wuthering Heights and other romantic tales.

  But dancing with a man would be a different thing altogether, and I prayed I would not disgrace myself in this, my maiden public effort.

  “Zerelda! What do you think you’re doing?”

  I froze as my father’s voice cut through the hum of conversation and whirl of music. Cole released my hand as if singed, and turned to face my father. “Sir,” he said, with a stiff bow.

  Father ignored him and turned to me. “Zerelda, what are you doing?” he demanded again.

  I held my head high, and willed my voice not to shake. “Mr. Younger has done me the honor of asking me to dance,” I said.

  Father turned to Cole. “I am sorry if my daughter has misled you,” he said. “But she does not dance.”

  “The fault is entirely mine, sir.” He flashed me a look full of sympathy, bowed, and melted into the crowd.

  Father turned to me once more. “Zerelda,” he began.

  “I don’t see what harm there is in dancing at my sister’s wedding,” I protested. “What sin can happen here in the open, with so many people watching?” And what is so wrong with a little sin if it makes me feel more alive? I thought, but did not dare say the words out loud.

  “You know that not all sin is evident for all to see.” He took my arm in his and began to lead me away from the edge of the dance floor. “We must also be concerned about the sin within our hearts.”

  If my father only knew the things I had thought and felt and longed for, he would no doubt judge my heart black with sin. Yet better black than empty of any true emotion or feeling.

  He patted my hand. “I know it is hard for you, dear,” he said. “The war has deprived you of so many little pleasures. But there are still many things for you to enjoy. Go and sit with your friends and enjoy their company. And no more talk of dancing or other unseemly behavior.”

  “Yes, Papa.” I allowed him to lead me to a chair with the other unattached young women. While their conversations flowed around me like the twitters of a flock of birds, I searched the crowd until I found the one young man who did not participate in the revelry. Jesse sat on the sidelines, in a group of older men, their faces somber as they talked of the war, of depredations visited upon friends and relatives, and of the success of the guerrillas.

  I finally broke from the group of young people and edged to the outermost rim of this circle of Jesse’s admirers, darkness concealing me from my mother and father, who wouldn’t hold with their unmarried daughter associating with so many men who were strangers to me.

  One of the other men, a Mr. Cleveland, had taken up the tale of Jesse’s exploits: “The reins in his teeth, a pistol in each hand, Jesse charged into that camp, guns blazing,” he related to an avid group of listeners. “Those Yankees must have thought the devil himself was riding them down. They fired, but none of them even grazed him.”

  The image of Jesse as avenging warrior stirred me. I watched his face as the flickering lantern light highlighted the fine bones of his cheeks and hard line of his jaw. Too many men who had returned from the fighting had a hollowed-out look, as if the rigors of battle had drained their very souls. Yet Jesse radiated health and vitality. Where others bore the weary air of defeat and failure, Jesse held the promise of a bright future.

  “The Yankees are scared of
us, boys,” he said. “I’ve seen it in their eyes when we charge them. They turn tail and run at the first sight of us. It’s only because there are more of them than us that they’ve lasted this long. The South has better men in a single county than the whole of the Northern Army, I’m convinced.” His voice rang with conviction, and I saw many an older man nod his head in agreement.

  Then I noticed I wasn’t the only female in the group. I spotted Esme and Rachel across from me at the edge of the circle of lantern light. Fanny was a little farther away, watching Jesse with all the avarice of a cat who has cornered a mouse.

  I looked away from her, and at that moment, Jesse raised his head and his eyes met mine. He rose. “If you’ll excuse me, ladies. Gentlemen.” He nodded and crossed the circle of admirers at an angle that would take him away from me, and disappeared into the darkness.

  I didn’t hesitate to go after him. I moved carefully, on the very edge of the lantern light, making sure I was unnoticed. I met Jesse near the elm where we’d first encountered one another that afternoon. The band struck up a mournful rendition of Lorena, the sweet, soulful notes soaring over the shuffling of feet on the canvas and the muted conversation of the crowd. “Why aren’t you dancing?” Jesse asked, before I could speak to him.

  “You know the answer to that.”

  “Dancing is an invention of the devil,” he said, in perfect imitation of my father delivering a sermon.

  I laughed at his apt impression, and he caught my hand in his. “I’ve noticed that the devil has cornered the market on interesting amusements,” he said. He removed his hat and hung it on the lowest branch of the tree, then offered me his arm. “Will you walk with me?”

  I slipped my hand into the crook his elbow, surprised by the iron hardness of his muscles, aware of a growing tension within my own body. I thought of the devil and his amusements, and wondered at Jesse’s own devilment, and how he seemed to speak to every contrariness in my own soul.

  “Where will you go from here?” I asked as we strolled just outside the line where light met darkness.

  “Wherever I’m commanded to go. It may be a good while before I return.“

  ”Do you think the war will be over soon?”

  “The formal battles may end soon. Conditions are bad all over, but especially in the South, and people and politicians are crying for an end to the fighting. But a treaty won’t end this fight. As long as the North insists on trampling the rights of Southerners, men like me will keep fighting.”

  “I want the fighting to end,” I said. “I want life to get back to normal, to be able to buy coffee and sugar and cloth again.”

  He patted my hand. “It’s natural for women to want such things. Men have to be more contrary.”

  “Then you want to fight?”

  “I can’t explain the feeling a good fight gives me. In the midst of battle, every sense is more keen. I feel so powerful, as if a force greater than myself is guiding my horse and firing my pistols.” He stopped and faced me, grasping me by the shoulders. “I believe God made each of us for a purpose in this life and fighting for the South is my purpose.”

  “And what is my purpose?” I asked.

  “Perhaps your purpose is to wait. To support the fighters.”

  Then he pulled me close and kissed me, his lips firm and sure against mine. I cried out, but not in protest. Though I had never been kissed by a man before, I had never wanted anything more. I leaned toward him, pressing my body to his, feeling the hard wall of his chest, his strong arms enfolding me.

  He tasted of the whiskey I knew the men had passed amongst them in a flask, and smelled of leather and gun oil and the faint tang of sweat. The stubble of his beard scraped the side of my face, and the callouses of his hands caught on the silk of my dress. Every softness in me was answered by a hardness in him, everything familiar transformed in his embrace.

  I never wanted the moment to end, but of course it must. He released me and stepped back, his breathing uneven, his voice rough. “I have to go now,” he said. He retraced our steps to the elm tree, where he retrieved his hat and replaced it on his head. Then he slipped into the darkness once more.

  I waited until even the echo of his footsteps had faded, unsure if I could walk on legs that felt made of jelly. I thought of what Jesse had said about going into battle and feeling as if something larger than himself had taken over. That’s what I’d felt when he had kissed me—as if someone other than me was kissing him back, pulling him close, behaving so wantonly. So honestly. That woman—that other me—had shaken off the bonds of demure Southern womanhood and surrendered to what she wanted. I had wanted Jesse, but now he was gone. Who knew when I’d see him again, or how much I would suffer until then?

  Esme married Anthony Colquit on a bright September morning scarcely a month after my sister’s wedding. At her request, he had grown a beard, which did a fair job of camouflaging his mole, but only served to make him look older than his years, owing to the fact that it was heavily streaked with gray. Esme professed not to mind and indeed, she looked happy as she stood in the parlor of her family’s home to say her vows. I stood up with her and wished her well, while the three Colquit children looked on with the expression of generals plotting disaster.

  As happy as I was for Esme’s marriage, the loss of the company of her and my sister in the same month filled me with restlessness. Everyone was moving forward with their lives while I was plagued by uncertainty about the future. The bleak picture of myself as an old maid, spending my life by the side of my aging mother, seemed a very real and unsettling prospect. My two older sisters were married, my five older brothers either away fighting or established on their own, as my younger brothers Thomas and Henry eventually would be. And as pretty and lively as my younger sister Sallie was, I had no doubt she would marry well. I might one day soon be the only one of my siblings left at home.

  For now, I welcomed the chance to run errands, escaping for at least a little while the house that might very well be my tomb. Even a trip to the general store for a packet of pins offered the opportunity to hear news and gossip, or glimpse a stranger passing through. If the storekeeper’s wife, Mrs. Riker, looked down on me, what did I care? Any chance to tweak her nose was a welcome diversion.

  Mrs. Riker was absent from the store the October Saturday I next heard news of Jesse. Mother had sent me to the store for a tin of saleratus and a bottle of bluing, but I was making the errand last as long as possible, lingering amongst the sewing notions, examining cards of buttons, when a man burst into the store.

  “Word just come from Centralia!” he shouted. “Bloody Bill’s done wiped out a hoard of Union soldiers.”

  I froze at the mention of Bloody Bill. “Was Jesse James with him?” The words were out of my mouth before I could stop them.

  But the man gave no sign that he thought my question unusual. “The James boys was with him, I hear,” he said. “Right there at the front lines. Bloody Bill had some eighty men with him. They cut the Northern Missouri rail lines and cleared the Yankees out of Boone County, then wiped out a bunch of bluecoats just returned from the Battle of Atlanta. Word is more than a hundred and fifty of the Yankees was slain in a fierce battle.”

  Word of what came to be known as the Centralia Massacre soon spread. It was all anyone talked of and many of their tales featured Jesse, who was lauded as a particular hero of the day, though so many versions of the action circulated I could never be sure what, exactly, had happened.

  But I pictured Jesse as Mr. Cleveland had described him, riding into battle with the reins of his horse gripped in his teeth, a loaded pistol in each hand, putting the fear of the devil into his enemies. In my mind, he was no devil, and certainly no mere man, but an angel—not the ethereal, meek harp players in the paintings in my father’s big Bible, but a powerful, beautiful, fearful being wielding a gun instead of a sword.

  In less fanciful moments I knew Jesse was mortal, and subject to the same injuries as other men. In the days aft
er that first announcement of the massacre, I combed what papers reached us, searching for mention of his name and news of his safety, but found nothing to ease my mind or satisfy my curiosity.

  Finally, I resorted to asking my mother. “Have you heard from Aunt Zerelda if Frank and Jesse are safe?” I asked one evening while I struggled to darn a pair of black stockings that had already been mended so often there was more darn than sock.

  “As far as I know, they’re fine,” Mother said. “Zerelda is very proud of them and talks of their heroism to everyone.”

  To say that Aunt Zerelda was proud of her sons was an understatement indeed. From the time they were small she had praised her boys as the most handsome, the brightest and the best sons a woman could want. Any schoolmaster who dared to try to correct the James boys knew he would face a tongue-lashing or worse from Zerelda. Six feet tall with shoulders as broad as any man’s and a tongue twice as sharp, she reduced many a man to trembling, and the neighborhood girls had learned not to bat their eyes at Frank or Jesse, or risk Zerelda’s wrath.

  “I’m glad to hear they’re safe,” I said, setting aside my darning, too weak with relief to focus on my work.

  “I worry that Zerelda boasts too much,” Mother said. “She’s never been one to act meekly, but now is not the time to be so outspoken against the North. I heard just last week of a young boy being dragged through the streets of Quincy and beaten for stating a wish for the South to win the war.”

  “Surely Aunt Zerelda’s suffering in jail has made her more circumspect,” I said.

  My mother laughed. “My sister-in-law is not one to hold her tongue. If anything, jailing her made her more outspoken than ever. She’ll never cease to champion the cause of the South—or to sing the praises of her sons.”

  I didn’t say, but I couldn’t see that championing ‘the cause’ was doing much for us. The sympathies of the entire state seemed to be shifting to the North, leaving those of us who clung to loyalty to the South isolated and in desperate straits. With so many men fighting, women had to work in the fields. Slaves were abandoning their masters and many farms fell into disrepair. My father preached about the darkness before the dawn, but I saw no sign of light.