The Bucket Flower. Donald R. Wilson

The Bucket Flower - Donald R. Wilson


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room for ussens.” The shanty was smaller than the boat, and she wondered how all five of them could lie horizontally at one time.

      “Sir,” called Mr. Davis, “can you sell us some firewood?” Two woodpiles were stacked beside the shanty.

      “I was a-fixin’ to trade that buttonwood to the charcoal folks.”

      “I mean your stove wood over there. The other logs are too long. I’ll give you five dollars for the whole pile.”

      The man’s eyes bulged, but he said, “You’ll hafta tote it yerselves.” For the first time he pointed his rifle away from the boat.

      “Done,” said Mr. Everett as he poled the boat to the dock.

      “Sir, might we talk to your wife while they load the wood?” asked Aunt Sarah.

      The man hesitated for a moment and then said, “I reckon.” Once Mr. Davis and Mr. Bolton had secured the boat to the narrow dock, the gentlemen helped the ladies ashore. Beth felt stiff after sitting for hours, and walking around would have felt better if she hadn’t had to relieve herself so urgently.

      Aunt Sarah went directly to the woman, who was wearing a ragged homespun dress faded to a dull gray. Her aunt said a few words to the woman and then dashed around the back of the shanty. She understood. They had been without the use of a toilet since Palatka, and her aunt had spotted the outhouse behind the shack.

      While they waited, there was little to do but stand around and slap at the mosquitoes. The three children, dressed in rags, hung shyly behind their mother. Even among the poorest immigrants in Boston she had not seen such poverty. Both the man and his wife stared at their dresses. All at once she felt out of place here in this small clearing beside the river. Without a word the woman went to the river’s edge and came back with a bucket of water and a dipper. The water was the color of weak tea. Only Mr. Bolton drank.

      Once everyone had a turn at the outhouse, Mrs. Dalton asked the woman, “Do you have any food you’re willing to sell us?”

      The woman looked at her husband. “The missus can fix you some collards ’n’ cooter, or atter the sun comes up I can fotch you a sloosh of catfish.”

      “What are ‘collards and cooter’?” asked Mrs. Dalton cautiously.

      “Greens ’n’ turtle meat.” The man still held his rifle in one hand.

      The group looked at one another. No one seemed to be that hungry.

      “We thank you kindly for the wood,” said Mr. Everett handing the man a five-dollar bill. “As soon as the boiler heats up we’ll be on our way.” Mr. Bolton was already on his hands and knees working at the firebox while the Negro was turning valves.

      By the time they got under way, darkness had enveloped them. The stars did little to reveal the difference between the blackness of the water and the growth on either side. They crept along with Mr. Everett in the bow as lookout. The mosquitoes had followed them onto the boat and didn’t give up until the moon rose and they made better headway. She noticed that Mr. Everett was careful to stay in the middle of the river.

      After dividing the remaining sandwiches into small pieces, everyone was quiet. A few people appeared to be attempting sleep in an upright position. The sole noise was the mesmerizing chug of the steam engine.

      Beth was unable to sleep. She had talked everyone into this pointless trip. With embarrassment she reflected upon how badly the day had gone. Her attempt at learning more about the flora was a disaster as well. The few plants she had been able to sketch were buttonwood, alligator flag, and grasses and lilies in the river. Her vision of Florida’s interior had changed. She had expected to see towns along the river and hotels and restaurants. The interior was wild and unpeopled. To be alone and defenseless frightened her. Forging ahead to the Everglades alone was less attractive now.

      The other choice was to return to Boston with Aunt Sarah, and that option provided terrors of its own. Admitting defeat to Papa was unthinkable. Papa always won, and he was always right. She remembered Papa forever berating Mama for initiating her own plans or ideas; every action, every idea, had to be his. He was the supreme master of the house and never let anyone forget it. That was why he hadn’t allowed them to have a butler. Mama’s role was relegated to planning the afternoon tea and negotiating with the seamstress. Papa even gave orders to the servants, and in a way, Mama had even less discretion than Mrs. Faraday. Beth could never understand the double standard Mama allowed for Papa—he committed countless selfish acts and yet she respected and loved him. Was it fear? Mama tried to make Papa the center of her life and be his helper and servant. Yet he always blamed her for whatever went wrong.

      Going back to Boston meant having to contend with Mr. Cushing. Living with him would be worse than Mama’s problems with Papa. Mama and Papa expected her to marry him, live in the city, and be Mr. Cushing’s slave—a slave, at least, to the endless customs to be observed. At best, life would be a long string of boring teas, dinner parties, and calling cards. That last night at the dinner party she had broken almost every rule in the book, and hopefully now Mr. Cushing had given up on her anyway. The other option was to live as Aunt Sarah did, as a spinster and alone. With all its unknown dangers yet to be encountered, Florida still presented a better choice.

      They had returned to Palatka close to midnight and remained at the Putnam House until the morning train carried them back to St. Augustine. Almost everyone had been kind to her for suggesting the trip up the Oklawaha. The gentlemen were enthusiastic about the adventure, except for Mr. Bolton, who said nothing as usual. The ladies were less pleased, but considered the experience “interesting,” save for Henrietta’s saying that the trip had been dreadful. That comment was less disappointing than the fact that the day had given her little opportunity to study the plant life in detail. Aunt Sarah was unusually quiet and pale.

      When they arrived back at the Ponce de Leon, a telegram awaited her from Edward Cushing. He would arrive in St. Augustine in seven days.

       Chapter

       5

      The next few days slipped by too quickly. She was reminded of the weekends during her senior year at Wellesley. Life had been a merry-go-round of parties and dances, and the moods of both the young ladies and the gentlemen had been light and carefree. But now her outlook was different from the others. While everyone should have time out to play, more serious matters needed to be addressed. Mama had said this was a man’s world. Women who allowed themselves to be confined to the strict, customary roles were contributing to that ancient tradition. She admired women like Elizabeth Cady Stanton and Julia Ward Howe. Other women like Susan B. Anthony and Carrie Nation worked toward prohibition, women’s suffrage, and other rights for women. But even more than these ladies, she revered professional women like her mentor, Alice Katherine Adams, who was among the first women to attain a doctoral degree. Even fewer women were like Dr. Adams, a professional who was also married and had children. Custom was against a woman becoming educated, achieving professional status, and raising a family if she chose. Was she expecting too much of herself by aiming for that goal? She decided she was not. Now was the time for her to get on with her reason for being here.

      Another worry was Aunt Sarah. After her return from the Oklawaha trip, she remained confined to her room for the next two days. Her aunt pooh-poohed all concerns for her health and reassured her that she was just overtired. True to her promise, she was up and around again on the third day, but still looking pale.

      Planning the immediate future was imperative. Without telling anyone, she assessed the three gentlemen, looking for that male companion who might escort her into Florida’s interior. The excursion up the Oklawaha had helped her determine which gentleman was to be her partner on the trip into the Big Cypress Swamp. No one was capable of holding a candle to Mary’s Michael Otis, of course, but at least one of them might qualify as an acceptable escort to accompany her down the Fakahatchee River. Her decision had to be made soon, since they had to leave before Mr. Cushing arrived.

      Of the three, Mr. Everett ranked


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