Coming Home, Chapter 1

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“The two most important days in your life are the day you are born and the day you find out why.” Mark Twain

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“I might be crazy, but I may also be on the verge of something wonderful.” Silas Pennington shook his head, swallowed back a bubble of joy, and told himself, “Come on, Silas. Be brave. You’re the second-born son of Thomas and Marietta Pennington. I know they love me, but I also knew there will be no estate for me.” He grinned and nodded. “Thank heavens there will no estate for me. I don’t want the bother and burden. What I want is an adventure. Uncle Jacob has given me the chance for exactly that.”

He sat in his mother’s rose garden holding a letter he’d read repeatedly. The roses weren’t yet ready to bloom, but their green leaves were abundant. A few bright yellow daffodils were peeking out of the ground, a sure sign spring was close at hand. He told the daffodils, “I can build my own life!” They remained their jolly yellow selves but gave no attention to Silas. He wanted to step out and be bold, but there was a lot to consider and maybe a bit of fear. It wasn’t just his life. It was the life of his wife and children. What about them? Would Maggie even consider the prospect? What would his mother and father say?

He sighed, closed his eyes, and let his anxieties settle. The smells of the earth waking from its long winter’s nap in Columbia, South Carolina, mixed with the soft breeze and the slight coolness in the mid-morning of late February 1898, were persuading him to give it a go. The myriad sounds of the birds, and the rustle of the trees and shrubs, lifted his spirits, daring him to be bold. He smiled, thinking of all the possibilities of stepping out into the wild world, and certainly, where he was thinking of going was wild indeed. Those thoughts filled his heart and soul with joy and a frisson of fear.

He opened his eyes, looked at the envelope in his hand, and pulled out the paper inside. It was a letter from his Uncle Jacob, Major Jacob Pennington of the United States Army. He was stationed in Indian Territory near a small town named Tishomingo. Silas smiled but shook his head as he read the letter—not for the first time:

December 1, 1897

Tishomingo, Indian Territory

My dear Silas,

Greetings, dear boy, and to your lovely wife, Maggie, as well. Give my love to her and your children. I hope this letter finds you in good fettle and happiness. I find myself more and more melancholy these days and wonder what to do with myself and my life. For now, I keep going on as ever at the bidding of the Army. However, I feel a need to speak of my future and hopefully of yours as well.

I love my new cabin, although I can hardly call it a cabin. In truth, it is a large house—more house than I will ever need—large enough for a family. My first smaller log cabin was and still is sufficient for me. However, as I’ve written before, I hope that you and your dear wife Margaret will bring your children to Indian Territory and come live in this new home. I built this house with you and your family in mind. I’d gladly return to my smaller cabin, a short ten-minute walk from the big house, if only you would join me in Indian Territory. This isn’t simply an offer of a place to live and to call your own but a plea to have you near me.

I do not understand humanity anymore. I’ve tried to live an honorable life, but my current Army posting in Indian Territory and the small settlement of Tishomingo has become a burden on my soul. A few white men and women are determined to make life miserable for anyone who isn’t white and Christian. They eschew the native traditions making the Chickasaws unsure of their lot in life. This is their land, as decreed by our very own government. Many died while being driven here from their homes east of the Mississippi River. It is called Indian Territory for a reason—it is their land, their home.

I find myself often wishing I’d been born Chickasaw. Wishes and horses come to mind, of course. The Chickasaw Natives are, by and large, good people, like many other humans on this earth. Some refer to themselves as the First Americans, which they indeed are, as are all the Native tribes in America. Of course, there are a few ne’er-do-wells, but most are just like you and me—the salt of the earth.

There are many very nice people here. One of the best is a young man about your age, Clay Harrison, and his wife, Aurora. They are a lovely couple and work hard. He is a white man who does lots of odd jobs for the Army and others around here. He is more than a handyman with many skills. Most importantly, he is a good friend to me. However, because his wife is part Chickasaw and part African, she is shunned by many in the area, especially by white bigots. Most of those folks—overly religious to my way of thinking—believe God only gave breath to the white people and the Natives are less than human. Clay and Aurora worked hard, helping me build this big house to fulfill my hopes that you’ll move here and join me in Indian Territory.

I’ve offered my small cabin for them to live in until you arrive, but they felt that was too much like charity. Daily I hope they will change their minds. If it means anything to you and Maggie, Aurora is a midwife and, by all accounts, a dandy one. When helping a babe into the world, is the only time many folks do not shun her because of their own need. In my heart, I feel you and Maggie could be happy here, especially with two such fine people as Clay and Aurora to be your friends—which I’m certain they will be.

There is much you and Margaret could do and add to this part of our world. I long to see your dear children again. Noah was a wee tyke, not sure of himself yet, and unsteady on his feet when last I saw him. Bea and Ben were babes in their cradles. I dream of watching them frolicking in my yard and racing to the creek to swim, splash, and aggravate the fish, turtles, and other surrounding wildlife. Please, talk it over with Margaret and let me know when you’ll arrive. If money is an issue, I’m happy to fund your journey to what I know will be a marvelous new home.

As the second son, to which happy grace I also was born, your fortune and favor are your own to make. I want to ensure you have an opportunity to create your own life in your own way. My heart loves this wild and beautiful place, and I know your heart would feel the same.

Give my love to your darling wife and dear children, my brother and his wife—your mother, and your brother and his fiancé. I love them heart and soul, but you are the son I never had.

My goodness! I nearly forgot to mention the creek running by my property—hopefully, your property. The creek is named Pennington Creek. I’ll tell you the story when you arrive here. I feel it is incumbent upon us to be sure Penningtons will grace the creek’s banks for years and years—hopefully, centuries—to come.

Your loving uncle,

Jacob Pennington.

Silas folded the letter carefully as the folds were becoming fragile from his reading and re-reading the letter. He tucked it back into the envelope. As he closed the envelope, he felt a tug of possibility. He sat muttering to himself. “I’m an editor in a Columbia, South Carolina newspaper, but I’m simply not making enough money to build my own home. From the time I first read the stories in a McGuffy reader, all I’ve ever wanted to do was write stories. The closest I’d come so far were a few short stories, poems, and newspaper editing.”

He didn’t mind living with his parents, but he had a deep feeling he wanted to have his own home. He smiled, thinking of his parents. “They have been kind and generous to me and my family, but still, I’m a grown-assed man with a wife and three children and one on the way. I want to be making a home for myself, my wife, and my children.”

He sighed and thought, besides, my brother Randolph and his fiancé Charlotte will be married soon. He’s ready to take his place living in the family home and managing Daddy’s businesses. Momma and Daddy want to live in the gatehouse for the rest of their days. I’m sure Randolph wouldn’t toss us out, but I’m also sure he deserves to take over the reins of Father’s enterprises without me tagging along. As the eldest son, Randolph will inherit our father’s estate. What a relief it is for me! As a lawyer and accountant, Randolph is much more suited to the life of one of the elites of Columbia. Being an editor isn’t a slouch job, but it certainly isn’t high society which I loathe.

He tapped the envelope of his uncle’s letter. Silas said, “According to Uncle Jacob, the possibilities are nearly boundless. Still, I’m nervous about mentioning the letter to Maggie.” He sighed, not sure what he should do. He was intrigued, and if he could bring himself, to be honest, he was eager to do precisely what Uncle Jacob wanted him to do. He nodded and said, “But Maggie and the children are the real issues. Could Maggie be happy living in the wilds of Indian Territory no matter how lovely the house and creek were? It would undoubtedly be hard for her, and we couldn’t afford the servants that help her now. I’m certain she’d work hard, and the children would probably love the wilds of Indian Territory.”

He shook his head and sighed again. “Come on, Silas! Sighing isn’t going to help you decide a damned thing. But I still do not know what to do or how to reply to Uncle Jacob. I’ve had this letter for nearly a month now and kept the letter and its message to myself. I’m feeling a burden of guilt not sharing the letter with Maggie.”

Silas thought not sharing Uncle Jacob’s plea for their presence in his life was a betrayal to his wife. He nodded and said, “Maggie loves Uncle Jacob nearly as much as I do, and he honors her as my wife and a niece by marriage. I know what I need to do—show her the letter.”