The Passing of Phillip Stanley Westover

This story is by Cheryl Murphy and was part of our 2016 Winter Writing Contest. You can find all the Winter Writing Contest stories here.

October 16, 1856

To you into whose hands this has fallen,

Wrapped in black ribbon is my heart in form of letters. They are all that remains of my beloved youngest son. I have not the heart to dispose of them nor the courage to read them once more. I pray that as you read them you see how brightly he shone in his short lifetime, and how unjust that it ended in ashes.

Sincerely,

Sarah Westover

August 22,1847

Dearest Mother,

It is with great pain that I take leave of our home. I can no longer bear the looks and sounds of disapproval. More hurtful still is the disdain father and William hold towards you for the unfailing support you have shown me. In my departure, I hope that you are restored to the place of regard you deserve.

I have had word from a colleague of a small likeminded group of landscape painters who are embarking on a journey westward to capture the majesty of these untamed lands. Please do not worry for my safety nor my success. I consider myself as blessed for the opportunity. I shall strive earnestly for success if for no other reason than to prove your faith in me is not misguided.

Your devoted son,

Phillip

November 17,1847

Dearest Mother,

I pray that you are well. It is in your loving nature to view Fathers threats and admonishments as measure of his devotion to my well-being. I will try not to think harshly of him, my job made easier by the great distance between us. It is my fervent hope that with my success, all will soon be over.

I have settled in the New Mexico Territory. There are endless opportunities to paint amongst the mountains, canyons and plains. The vistas here are both majestic and humbling. The brightest sunsets one could ever conceive are matched in beauty by the brilliant red and orange hues of the mountains.

The local Indians here are unlike what we have been told about their nature. They are gentle people. Their tribal name, Hopi, means civilized.

Your devoted son,

Phillip

April 8, 1848

Dearest Mother,

I have found myself here at the most opportune of times. There is a thirst not just for paintings but for newspaper pictorials. A fortnight ago I signed a contract with the Boston Post for publication of my sketches. Consider me not crude should I tell you the remuneration was far more than I expected. I tell you this not to be boastful but to assure you that I am profiting as I promised when I left Philadelphia. It would be most abysmal to me should all this discord created be in vain.

I have purchased property on which to build. I will feel settled once I have my own space and am not subject to the sometimes-rowdy nature of the town center. My days are filled with work leaving me time for little else but dinner and sleep.

Your devoted son,

Phillip

August 6, 1848

Dearest Mother,

So much has come to pass in the last four months that I have not yet had the opportunity to quietly reflect on the good fortune our Dear Lord has lain at my feet. My work sells before it is complete. I have thrice set aside a landscape for you and then was offered such a large sum I would be foolhardy to refuse it. Rest assured, I will not forget you.

I have hired a Hopi girl named Yamka to cook and care for my home. Her cooking though different from what I am accustomed, tastes clean upon my palette and gives me the stamina necessary to hike to where the vistas are best. Her presence has greatly eased the chaotic appearance of my surroundings. My work is so solitary in nature it is a comfort to have another person in the periphery although a language barrier prevents us from communication involving anything more expressive than pointing. I would be adrift should she leave my employ.

Your devoted son,

Phillip

November 8, 1849

Dearest Mother,

I pray this letter finds you well. I am dismayed that I was not asked to attend Williams nuptials. Why should my presence prove distressing? It was my understanding that father’s objections were based upon my ability to sustain myself in a successful career. I feel the enmity towards me has grown with my success. It causes me to wonder if there was ever any affection for me in their hearts. Forgive me my anger Mother. I know you do not believe them guilty of such motivations.

My relationship with father in ruination leaves me no reason to hide from you that I have come to have a deep abiding affection for Yamka. I pray you can accept my feelings for her. She carries with her my grateful heart. I perish the thought of a future without her. I cannot believe that God the Creator deems these people unfit for association with good Christians. To the contrary, I believe His grace and love is extended to all.

I was confronted by my feelings for her on a day when disasters both large and small befell me. I attempted to carry on without temper. The final assault to my patience happened as I packed my equipment only to have my canvas, a full week’s work, catch the wind and fly beyond my grasp, initially upward then turning and plummeting down the ravine. In my anger, I made misstep and fell, ripping my trousers, skinning my knees and hands and spilling paint and brushes. The slope of my path caused them to roll what seemed like an endless distance.

For the rest of the two hour hike I could think only that everything would right itself on my return home to Yamka. As I trudged my beleaguered self onward it struck me how important she had become to me. Opening the door, I saw her. As she turned towards me her face was lit by the ebbing sunlight. It was as though God had illuminated her countenance for me to behold. I was struck by beauty I had failed to see in my dogged pursuit of my own interests. It was then I lost my heart.

Your devoted son,

Phillip

December 31, 1853

Dearest Mother,

You are the only one save Yamka to whom I can confide. My attempt to wed her was dashed when not one sanctioned minister nor justice of the peace would provide us service. I did not wish to besmirch her reputation and I could not fathom life without her. It left us no recourse but to be wed in a tribal ceremony. After news of our nuptials broke I was roundly ostracized by my patrons. Not one could give me just cause. It was followed by a cancellation of my newspaper contract. “I am no longer in need of your services” became as common to my ears as the recitation of the Lord’s Prayer.

I could not even secure employment as a banker. How painfully ironic that I should be rejected in the profession I was born to.

I have taken to farming what meager crops I can grow in such arid lands. It provides barely enough to feed my family.

It leaves my mouth bitter that I am persecuted for falling in love and raising a family. How cruel this life to rob me and my flesh and blood of everything God has given me.

Yamka implores me to leave this place and join her tribe. She says her people will welcome us. I cannot leave, my tail between my legs, no longer a man but a dependent of the Hopi tribe.

It was but a score ago William and I joined you round the piano to sing Rock of Ages. Father with his pipe, in his chair, keeping time with a tap of his foot. We looked a lovely tableau of familial happiness and success only later to be crushed like the violet from an unapologetic bootheel.

I seek not pity. I am accustomed to rising above the condemnation of others for that has been my lot. I will fight on with my last breath to right this frightful wrong delivered unto us. I will write again when things for us are better.

Your devoted son,

Phillip

September 10, 1854

Dear Mr. and Mrs. Westover,

I regret to I inform you of the passing of your son, Phillip Stanley Westover. He died from a gunshot wound suffered in dispute over monies he claimed due him.

Indiscreet relations maintained by Mr. Westover with one Hopi woman known as Yamka produced two bastard children. All three were sent back to their tribe as it is not fit that a Christian family take in half breeds and their concubine mother.

In closing I would like to extend my sympathies just the same, as his behavior will be judged by God, not by me.

Jud Benson, Sheriff