Sarah Madigan's Diary

By Nona Austin Roberts

When Sarah Madigan lost her three children to diphtheria, she also lost her hair and was shunned and thought to be crazy, a thought not far from her own assessment or her husband's. Broken in spirit and pregnant with her fourth child, she stole a Diary in which she found some release for her sorrow and pain. When the baby came, she was ready to begin again until her husband, bedridden after being trampled by his horse, secretly sent their fourth child away, pushing her to the edge of insanity and leaving her in charge of their farm with only an old ex-slave to help her. It is April 1910. Sarah Madigan's husband of ten years controls everything in her life. Without her baby son, she is desperate and tormented. The only thing keeping her going is her determination to do whatever she has to do to prove to her husband that she is capable and worthy so he will allow their child to come back home.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Page Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: Jan 15, 2018
• ISBN: 9781641383660

Book preview

Chapter 1

April 1910

It was an hour before dawn, but Sarah was up and the kitchen was warm from the fire she’d already started in the cook stove. Another hard day of never-ending chores was beginning, but before she rang the bell on the back porch to wake Luke in the barn, there was something she had to do, something she had done at least once a day for seven months, especially in the beginning.

She took her coat off the hook by the back door, put it on to protect herself from the early morning chill, and adjusted her close-fitting bonnet, making sure it was tied securely underneath her chin. It was the bonnet she wore at all times, even to bed, to hide her shame from her husband and from her own eyes in case she should catch a glimpse of her image reflected in the glass of the hutch or in the only remaining mirror in the house, a mirror that hung by the kitchen sink, which, until recently, her husband had used to shave every day. Now only Luke gazed in it when he washed up, in the morning, at noon, and in the evening, before meals.

Once outside, she glanced to the left, past the well, and on to the barn to make sure the light was not on yet, before stepping off the porch and walking in the opposite direction, beyond the three apple trees and down a little knoll to a patch of well-tended ground, marked off by a circle of stones.

Inside the circle, there were three small gravestones that read, Lolly Katherine, beloved daughter of Sarah and Henry Madigan—Born August 7, 1903, Died September 20, 1909, John Henry, beloved son of Sarah and Henry Madigan—Born March 15, 1900, Died September 25, 1909, and Amanda Lou, beloved daughter of Sarah and Henry Madigan—Born October 24, 1907, Died September 28, 1909.

Kneeling on a patch of grass, with the gravestones in front of her, she closed her eyes, bowed her head, clasped her hands together against her chin, and prayed, silently at first and then in soft, agonizing whispers, rocking back and forth. God, forgive my failings. Protect the only child I have left. Watch over him until he comes back to me. Don’t punish him, Lord, for any of my mistakes. And help me to bear the pain. Thank you, dear God.

At the last, after wiping the tears from her eyes that always came and before her amen, she added a plea for her husband to get better. Heal him, Lord, for I don’t know how we can survive without him. Amen. Then she kissed all three stones, slowly rose, and walked back to the house.

Before she went inside, she scraped the dirt from the soles of her shoes with a wooden stick laying on the porch for that purpose. In the kitchen, she removed her coat, hung it back on the hook, straightened her dress and also the petticoat underneath, and put on a clean, starched apron.

It was an ordinary day so she started to go outside to ring the bell for Luke to get up, but then she looked at the clock and realized there was time to steal a few extra minutes for herself before she had to wake him and make breakfast.

With eager hands, she impatiently removed a long, thin chain from around her neck on which two tiny brass keys were attached, pulled out the top right drawer of the hutch, and placed it on the sideboard. She then reached inside the empty space located behind the drawer, used one of the keys to open a small hidden compartment, and pulled out a beautiful book—her Diary.

As she ran her fingers over the velvety brown leather, a warm feeling coursed through her body. For a brief moment, she held it against her chest. Inside were the pages where she could express herself—depressed, insane, grief stricken. It mattered to no one but her. And it belonged to no one but her.

There was a sudden creaking sound that seemed to come from the bedroom where her husband was sleeping. Quickly, she put the drawer back into the hutch, thrust the Diary and the keys underneath her apron into one of the deep pockets of her dress, walked to the door, and listened. There was silence.

Reassured, she went through the kitchen to the living room, sat at Henry’s large oak desk, took out a pen and a bottle of ink, removed the Diary and keys from her pocket, and used the second tiny brass key to open it.

Her eyes fastened on the first page and she read it, once again, as she had many times before. It still gave her a small sense of satisfaction, a little revenge, just a little for all the hurts and pains she had endured.

December 1909

Dear Diary,

Now I am also a thief, for today I succumbed to a most fierce obsession. I stole this Diary. Without a guilty thought or a moment’s regret, I grabbed it when no one was looking, slipped it under my petticoat, and placed it between my legs. By squeezing them together, I held it in place as I gleefully acknowledged my way past all those who now disdain me, walked out the door of Grover’s General Store, to the tinkling of the bell, and climbed into the wagon to wait for Henry and Luke.

I kept it there all the way home and even managed, despite my being with child, to help unload the coffee and the flour without letting it fall to the ground. I felt such elation, dear diary, such incredible elation, even though I knew it was wrong to take it. But in spite of my sin, I’m so grateful that I own it.

And I wasn’t worried, dear diary, that Henry would find me out because I already had the hiding place. I discovered it quite by accident, the day Henry brought the hutch home to me last summer from Gilded-Rose, after we moved here. You, dear diary, fit in it just perfectly. Maybe the previous owner filled the hidden drawer with secrets too. Maybe it saved her life also. I hope so. Sarah.

She had read it all out loud because it helped her to remember why she had taken the Diary in the first place. Why she had been so willing to be a thief. Then she turned the pages until she found a blank one and began to write.

April 1910

Dear diary,

Yesterday was the same as the day before. Henry is not any better. His fever was up again last night and the gash in his leg oozed with infection and blood all day, soaking through four dressings. His ankle is still swollen from the sprain and his back seems to hurt worse. He’s so angry at the world and especially at me that I dread going through another day with him.

He told me yesterday that he believes it is my fault that he is not getting well, and I think he just may be right because Dr. Cobb told me if I would follow his instructions, Henry would be almost as good as new in four weeks.

And I have followed his instructions diligently, dear diary, but it’s been three weeks already and if anything, he is worse.

Everything I touch seems doomed. I am afraid . . . it is me . . . because—

She had intended to write more but, abruptly, she heard a loud moan coming from Henry’s bedroom. Startled, she put the pen down and started to close the Diary. However, as if dictated by fate, it fell open to the pages that still gave her chills. She didn’t want to read them but she couldn’t stop herself.

March 1910

Dear diary,

I smashed them all. All but one. I was alone in the house with my baby boy, Adam. Henry was in the blacksmith shop. Luke was in the chicken coop. The mirrors were still haunting me as they had for months, and so after I fed Adam, rocked him to sleep and put him down for a nap, I just smashed them. I took the smaller wooden mallet and smashed them. Perhaps it proves I am insane or possessed by the devil, as Henry believes. But today I do not care for my image is abhorrent to me.

My head is as smooth as a stone from the stream and I have no eyebrows or eyelashes. It is harsh punishment for my sins and I struggle to endure it. Every day I beg God not to take my only remaining child, my son Adam, for he is now my only reason to live.

Henry tells me it is because of my vanity, my willfulness, my ungodly conduct, my ungratefulness to him, and my inability to be a devoted, obedient wife that I must suffer so. He reminds me constantly how he saved me from the cruel fate of spending the rest of my life with evil, poor, uneducated half-relatives, working as a servant in a hovel with no hope of a good marriage or a good life.

He is probably right, dear diary. For in truth, I have never been grateful to him. Nor do I love him. At times, quite the opposite. But I have been faithful to him. And no matter, I have respected his position as my husband. And no one could have loved our children more, dear diary, no one.

I have also done my duty as his wife even though I hate it when he touches me now as much as I did the first time. I can never forget the horror of it. I thought he was trying to kill me. That day, dear diary, that day, when he first came to my step aunt and uncle’s house was the beginning of it all.

Henry was still a traveling minister then. He came to see my cousins and my step aunt and uncle. I was at the well, and I gave him water from the bucket and talked to him. He seemed nice and kind. He asked me if I loved God. I told him I did. He touched my hair with his hand and said that I was too enticing.

That night he came into the shed where I was sleeping and slipped, naked, underneath the covers beside me and, before I even knew he was there, laid on top of me and slammed one hand over my mouth. The other hand pushed up my nightgown. My eyes popped open and stayed open while he removed his hand from my mouth and replaced it with his mouth, pressing his teeth so hard against my lips that they bled.

His hands squeezed my breasts as he spread my legs with his knees, causing them to bend upward, and thrust himself, full force, inside me. The pain was terrible. I couldn’t breathe. I felt paralyzed.

When he was through, he told me to keep my mouth shut or I would be in terrible trouble for what I had done. He said I was a brazen temptress and that I should ask God for his forgiveness. Then he went back to the house to the room he shared with my two male cousins. The next day he was gone.

Several weeks later, I was throwing up every day and couldn’t eat or work. It was soon discovered that I was with child and my relatives wanted to know who the father was. I didn’t know. I didn’t know what had caused it until after I was married. They didn’t believe me and they turned my life into agony, called me a harlot and worse, and like Henry, said I should ask God for forgiveness.

Three months later, Henry came back. He sat on the old wooden chair in the living room with a Bible in his hand and tears in his eyes and told my step aunt and uncle that he felt their shame and offered to take me off their hands. He told them he was a widower and needed someone to take care of his house. He said he would see to it that the baby was taken care of. He even offered to pay them. That changed it all for they were very poor, and so they agreed and accepted the money. I was barely fourteen. He was thirty.

She rubbed her fingers over the page and wept inside—with no tears to show so Henry wouldn’t know.

Chapter 2

W ife, where are you? Henry yelled out. Come here and tend to your husband. If I die, you’ll be a true murderer.

She slammed the Diary shut, shoved it back into the same deep pocket of her skirt, put the long chain around her neck, making sure that the brass keys were hidden underneath her bodice, went outside on the porch, and rang the bell for Luke. When she came back in, she quickly walked toward the bedroom, calling out, I’m coming, Henry.

The smell of medicine and alcohol permeated the room. Henry was propped up on his elbow. His face and eyes were swollen and red. Perspiration ran down his cheeks. He glared at her and growled, What took you so long?

She stood by the bed and looked at him. Her throat felt dry and constricted as it usually did in his presence, especially when he was angry as he was now. She was never sure if her voice would be there when she tried to speak. I had to ring the bell for Luke, get water from the well, and make some clean bandages, she said nervously, her voice barely above a whisper.

Well, where are they then? he sneered. You come in here with nothing in your hands.

I . . . I’m going to remove the old bandages first, she stammered, then I’ll clean the wound and put the new ones on later. Dr. Cobb said we should leave it undressed, sometimes. He says as long as it’s clean, the air will help it heal.

Well, Dr. Cobb should know, shouldn’t he? He’s so smart and educated, he said sarcastically, rolling his head. Do it then.

Sarah got the stool from under the window, the large glass bowl from the dresser and set them on the floor by the bed. She sat on the stool and began to carefully remove the bandages and the poultice from Henry’s infected leg, putting them in the bowl for washing. It was a slow process as even the slightest touch made him grimace in pain.

Halfway through, he sat up and grabbed her arm. Wife, he yelled impatiently, his eyes crazed and bloodshot, do you have to hurt me so? I think you do it on purpose.

Softly but with firmness, with her head bowed, she said, I’m sorry, Henry, but I must remove the bandages so I can clean the wound. The doctor said—

The doctor said. The doctor said. Damn the doctor, Henry shouted. And damn you. Bring me some whiskey. I can’t stand the pain. He squeezed her arm so hard she thought the blood had stopped running through it, but she didn’t utter a sound. Did you hear me? he screamed.

She nodded silently and tried to rise, but he held on to her arm, stared at her face, and snarled, You’re lucky you smashed the mirrors. You don’t have to look at your ugly face and your constantly red eyes as I do. He let go of her then. Get me that whiskey.

His words were cruel but they were customary now and expected and Sarah was silent. Yet in spite of his cruelty, she felt sorry for him and made allowances for his tongue as she knew he was in terrible pain.

Besides, she had enormous guilt. Her three children were lost, buried in the ground because of diphtheria, and she knew that Henry blamed her—but no more than she blamed herself. She was sure it was something she did or didn’t do that had killed them. She believed as Henry did and most others too, that if he had been at home, it wouldn’t have happened.

She left the room, got the whiskey from the top of the kitchen cupboard, and brought it back to him, along with a glass. Frantically, his hands shaking, he ignored the glass, grabbed the bottle from her, opened it, and guzzled all that was there. Panic crossed his bleary-eyed, reddened face. Is this the last of it? he demanded.

Sarah, noticing how the sweat caused his brown hair to cling to his head like a baby’s, calmly shook her head. No. There is still one bottle.

One bottle! Is that all? My pure wife hasn’t been drinking it herself, has she? he asked mockingly.

Looking down at the bed, she answered back, politely, No, Henry.

Oh, certainly, you say. But I don’t believe you, he yelled. My ankle is badly sprained. My back is bruised and painful and I have an infected leg. But crazy as you are, I am still loath to understand how you could deprive me so, for your wounds are self-inflicted, mine come from you and being trampled by a horse.

Exhausted, he laid his head back on the pillow. You better ride over to Mr. Thornton’s tomorrow and buy some of his homemade brew then, for I don’t think I can survive without it. He closed his eyes. Finish the job, Sarah, he said.

Hardly touching the wound, she continued to gently remove the bandages, discarding them in the bowl on the floor. She wanted to tell him she needed far more than whiskey. She needed someone to help her and Luke with the planting. And someone to run the blacksmith shop before they lost all their customers. Some had already left. But every time she tried, the look on Henry’s face stopped her. She couldn’t even imagine the heaps of insults he would spout at her. And in the end, he still wouldn’t allow it for, other than stealing the Diary, she had never made suggestions or done anything on her own.

Henry was the master of everything in her life. He took credit for everything she knew and everything she did right, and indeed, he had taught her most of it, except how to read and write. That, her mother, a schoolteacher, had taught her before she died, much to Henry’s immense dismay as he claimed it had been time wasted on information that was useless to a farmer’s wife, with all she had to do, and he had no intention of adding to it or praising her for it.

But the real reason it upset him so was, of course, that he had not been the one to teach her and, therefore, couldn’t brag about it or lord it over her the way he did with everything else.

When Sarah finished removing the bandages, Henry was out cold, knocked out by the whiskey and the pain. She was grateful as she knew he would be sleeping for a few hours, which would allow her some time to do the morning’s chores in peace. But before she left the room, she removed the covers from the bed to make sure his leg would be exposed to the air like the doctor had ordered.

Two hours later, breakfast was over for herself and Luke. The kitchen was clean. The chickens were fed. The cow was milked, and the eggs were picked up. Sarah returned to the house with more kindling for the wood stove and heard Henry’s angry call for her. Wife, have you deserted me?

She grabbed some clean bandages from the kitchen cabinet drawer and went to the bedroom. Henry was leaning on one arm, looking wild-eyed. When she saw his leg, she had to hold her breath to keep from gagging. It looked worse than it had when she took the bandages off, with grotesque, purple, oozing pus, and it was so swollen it made his leg look misshapen. Another poultice, she realized, would have to be applied before the end of the day. No, Henry, she whispered.

Then where have you been? he barked. You know I am suffering and you leave me here in pain.

I’m sorry, Henry. I was bringing some kindling to the house, she said timidly.

He mocked her voice. I was bringing some kindling to the house. Then he scowled and surveyed her all over. Making yourself useful, Sarah? Do you think that makes up for everything you’ve done to me? Do you? He didn’t wait for an answer. I need some whiskey.

I have to put the new bandages on first. And you need to eat.

So, wife, you have determined, in your great wisdom, that my leg has been undressed long enough now? he asked mockingly. Bring the whiskey first, then put on the bandages.

Sarah laid the bandages on the dresser and, in an automatic manner, got the remaining bottle of whiskey and brought it back to her husband in the bed. He grabbed it from her hand, opened it, put it to his lips, and gulped it so greedily that some of it dripped down the sides of his mouth and remained in the stubble that had grown on his chin. He put the top back on the bottle, stuck it under his pillow, lifted his head, and said, arrogantly, with a slight slur, while licking his lips, Now, wife, you can apply the bandages and then I will eat.

Numbly, Sarah did as Henry said, wrapping his leg gently and carefully. Then she put the covers back on him, went to the kitchen, made him breakfast, and served it to him on a tray. It was just past eight thirty in the morning. By nine, he was passed out again, his breakfast only half-eaten.

At the end of another hard day, after finishing the laundry, which included all of Henry’s homemade bandages, and cleaning up from supper, Sarah went in to check on him and saw that he was sleeping and that the bottle of whisky was almost empty. She thought, hopefully, it would mean a good night’s sleep for him without too much pain and interruption. That was also her hope for herself as sleep was something she desperately needed. But before she went to bed, she wrote about it in her Diary.

Dear diary,

Henry was drunk all day, and for the first time, though I know I shouldn’t be, I was glad as the gash in his leg is frightening and it appears that the whiskey helped him forget about it and me, for at least a while, something the headache powder couldn’t do.

I wish somehow I could forget about it. But I can’t. I can’t. For not only is there so much to do but Luke, though he tries and is helpful, is too old to do all the things that need to be done. He can’t even do all the things he used to do when we moved here a year ago.

I don’t think I ever told you about Luke, dear diary. He was born a slave. He had a mother and a sister, but he was sold away from them when he was little and worked in the house of a man named Master Gilbert. After the war, he discarded that name and took instead the last name of Elder, the name of a dying slave, who was a friend.

And I’m not sure how old he is because he doesn’t know the year he was born. But he is partially gray and he does say he was nearly fully grown when the war ended and he was reborn, free. That day, April 9, 1865, is, he says, his real birthday. And that’s the birthday we acknowledge.

Whatever his age, dear diary, he can’t do all the work by himself and I can’t do it all either. I am so tired now, but I feel guilty even writing it or thinking it. It seems incredibly selfish as Henry is suffering, so since he fell off Sadie, his horse, and his leg got torn up, especially since my interest in seeing him get well is, I confess, almost completely selfish for he alone knows who has our son.

Sarah

She then went to bed on a pallet on the floor near her husband’s bed, her usual place since the accident.

Chapter 3

The next morning, Henry propped himself up against the headboard of the bed, with two pillows. Sarah came in and changed the dressing and the poultice too. The whiskey bottle was lying empty on the floor, but Henry appeared to be sober, and for some reason, his leg seemed momentarily unimportant to him. He didn’t even look at it.

That was most probably because he was focused on giving Sarah instructions regarding the purchase of the whiskey. And giving Sarah instructions or berating her almost always seemed to rejuvenate him, at least temporarily.

Let Luke drive the wagon, Sarah. You hear me? he stated adamantly. "Have him take Sadie. She’s the easiest to handle. Even at his age, he’ll do much better than you could ever do. Besides, he knows the way to Thornton’s. He’s been there with me already and he can make sure you don’t get cheated. I know if it’s left up to you, you will be cheated. By yourself, you haven’t the brains of a flea. You hear me?"

She nodded in silence.

Henry looked satisfied and pointed to two long sticks leaning against the wall by the window, which had been flattened on top, smoothed down to remove any loose splinters, and covered with thick cloth strips, where they fit under his arms. It was mostly Luke’s work. He had made them for Henry after the accident. Sarah had applied the cloth to the tops. Bring those over here by the bed, he ordered.

Sarah got them for her husband. She knew what came next. But she asked the question anyway. It was expected. Do you want me to help you?

With a slight cynicism, because he resented needing it, he looked at her like she was stupid and said, Of course.

She bent over him, put her arms around his waist, and planted her feet while he braced himself against the mattress by straightening his arms and leaning on his closed fists. This enabled her to help him to a sitting position. He then put his arms around her, while she turned his legs to the side of the bed so that his feet were firmly planted on the floor, inside hers. Finally, spreading her feet further apart for more strength, she placed her arms underneath his and all the way around his back, and helped lift him to a standing position.

It was hard work and she strained, but she was a farmer’s wife, used to lifting heavy things and much stronger than anyone would ever have guessed, looking at her small stature.

At the finish, Henry’s large body was contorted with pain. Sweat ran down the sides of his face, but he was silent as she handed him the sticks, one at a time, and helped him support his body on them. Go on in the kitchen, he said harshly, and be quick about it. I’ll call you when I’m finished.

As she left the room, he called after her, Make sure the door is securely closed.

For several minutes, Sarah stayed in front of the closed bedroom door, pacing back and forth, listening to the thump, thump, thump sound of the crutches on the wooden floor, waiting impatiently for Henry to call her back in the room whenever he got the money from its hiding place.

Sarah wasn’t trying to spy. She was simply worried that he would fall, or even worse, that the fall would cause him to be knocked out and she wouldn’t hear it. So there she stood, waiting.

She didn’t know where Henry hid the money, but she surely could’ve found it if she had tried, since the room was not that big and there weren’t that many hiding places in it. In addition, the key that opened the place where the money was hidden was around his neck, yet Sarah didn’t ever look for the money or try to look for it or try to take the key from him even when he was passed out drunk because she didn’t have his permission, and without his permission, it simply never occurred to her to do either.

Henry was her husband. He was in charge of everything in her life and had been since the day he had taken her from her uncle’s house, more so now than ever before since he knew where Adam was and she did not and there was no way she was going to do anything that would jeopardize her son’s return.

Henry picked up the piece of paper from the bottom of the brass box, glanced at it, smiled a deep smile, then put it back in the box with the money. It was his insurance, he thought to himself, that Sarah would do exactly as he said, not that that had ever been a problem. But right now, he felt vulnerable, so vulnerable that he had stomped around the room