Angel Train

A SLIGHT MOVEMENT TO the left caught Charity Morgan’s eyes. She turned quickly, then smiled at a tiny mouse that appeared from behind her walnut washstand. The small creature advanced a few steps, sat up, and primly folded its paws. Charity noted the bright black eyes, somewhat pleased with her visitor.

“So you’re here again, is it?”

The music of old Wales was in her voice, though she had been born in America. Her parents had arrived in Pennsylvania from Wales along with other members of a close-knit religious group called the Pilgrim Way. It was inevitable that Charity’s speech would carry the strains of Welsh.

“You’ve come begging. Shame on you,” she whispered, but she reached over to the table beside her chair, opened a box, and took out a lump of hard cheese. Breaking off a generous portion, she tossed it toward the mouse, which stared at Charity with eyes like shiny black beads. With quick movements, the tiny beast seized the cheese, turned, and scurried back under the washstand.

“I don’t doubt you’ve got some wee ones to feed,” Charity murmured.

Rising from her chair, she laid the worn black Bible on the table beside her bed, then walked over to the window. The winter of 1854 had been bitter in Pennsylvania, and the ground was still frozen hard as iron. A light snow had fallen during the night, rounding the edges of the buildings and fences and giving them a peculiar grace in Charity’s eyes. The huge walnut trees that surrounded the house were still bare— the leaves had all passed to the ground to make new soil—and the giants seemed to hold black branches high as if in prayer. Such a fantastic, overly imaginative notion was typical of her thoughts, and Charity sighed with longing for the spring to break up the frozen earth and bring tiny green shoots to life.

Turning to the dressing table, she picked up a mother-of-pearl comb and ran it through her brilliant red hair, which glinted with flecks of gold when the sunlight struck it in a certain way. Her eyes were a startling shade of green that flashed when she was angry or very happy. She was not beautiful; her features were too strong for that. She smiled suddenly, then shook her head.

“Nothing to buy a stamp for, are you, girl?” Summing up her opinion of her looks—which many young men did not agree with—she studied her image for a moment, almost as if she were examining the face of a stranger. Her stubborn chin reflected her character. Her lips were broad and well shaped, and her rich, smooth complexion was the envy of many women. All this did not please her, however, and she turned with a quick motion and put on her coat that hid her womanly contours. At the age of twenty-six, she was full-bodied and had quick movements.

Leaving the room, she descended the stairs to the kitchen. She paused abruptly, looking over to where her twelve-year-old sister Bronwen was curled up in a chair, reading a book.
Peering at the cover, Charity said sternly, “Pa will have you for reading trash like that!”

Bronwen Morgan had the same color hair as Charity, but her eyes were a bright blue, almost electric. She looked up from the book and muttered “Well, don’t tell him, Sister.”

“You know he doesn’t like it when you read romances like that.”

Bronwen closed the book and hugged it to her chest. “I like to read romances,” she said defiantly. “They’re the only kind I’m ever likely to get.”

“No, they’re not.”

“Yes, they are. I don’t have any more shape than an old rake handle. I’ll
never
have a bosom!”

“Indeed you will. Now don’t be foolish!”

Bronwen gave her sister an envious look, then asked, “When did you get a bosom, Charity?”

Charity wanted to laugh. It was exactly the sort of question Bronwen would ask. “When the good Lord decided it was time. Now, you go start heating the water so the men can have a good bath. Get you to it now!”

Bronwen sighed, closed the book, and moved reluctantly across the room. Charity watched with dissatisfaction. Their mother had died at childbirth when Meredith had been born six years earlier. Since that time, Charity, who had been twenty when the Morgans lost her mother, Maureen, had stood in the place of a mother to her two sisters and brother. “A sorry job I’ve done of it,” she muttered, then shook her head and threw a couple more sticks of white oak into the kitchen stove. She plucked a wool, knit cap down off a peg, pulled it over her ears, and started to leave the kitchen.

She was interrupted when Meredith came running into the kitchen, her eyes bright. She had the blue eyes of her father,
and her hair was a rich auburn rather than the startling red of Bronwen’s and Charity’s. At the age of six, she was one of the most precocious children any of the Morgans had ever seen. She had practically taught herself to read by following along when Bronwen had read to her from storybooks. She never had a thought in her life that she didn’t speak out—which produced embarrassing results at times.

Now she said, “I’m hungry, Sister.”

“We’ll have a good supper tonight.”

“Where are you going now?”

“Going out to get a couple of chickens for the pot.”

“I’ll go with you.”

“You don’t need to.” Charity hesitated and then said, “I’m going to have to kill them, you know. We can’t eat them alive, can we?”

Meredith stared at her. “Don’t be silly. Nobody eats chickens alive, but I want to go anyway.”

“Well, you may go, but I don’t want to hear you begging for any of them.” She well knew that Meredith had named every single chicken in the yard as well as all of the livestock. She had come up with unusual names, including calling their bull Sally. The fact that Sally was a female name attached to a monstrous male did not trouble her.

“Well, come you then.”

Charity walked down the back porch steps and paid little attention to Meredith’s constant stream of questions and observations. She was trying to decide how many chickens she would need. It would have been an easy enough thing to decide except that her father, Gwilym, was prone to inviting expected visitors for a meal. This was well and good as a show of hospitality, but it made preparing a meal difficult
for Charity. A few times she’d been forced to make portions smaller to feed the guests her father had brought.

Unfastening the gate to the chicken yard, she stepped inside, and Meredith followed. Shutting the gate, she moved over to the henhouse and took a handful of feed. The sound brought all the chickens running, clucking, and scurrying around her, and she scattered the grain with a free hand.

“That’s not nice, Charity!”

“What’s not nice?”

“Using feed for bait. You know you’re going to kill them.”

“It makes them easier to catch, besides—” Suddenly, a sharp pain caught Charity in her ankle. She uttered a cry, turned around, and saw a huge black rooster looking at her, malevolence in his beady eyes. Quick as thought, Charity reached down and caught the big rooster by the neck.

“You black devil! That’ll be the last time you peck anybody!”

With a practiced motion she swung the chicken around until the head parted from the body. What was left of Judas hit the ground, then, in the way of chickens, came to his feet, and began running around, spouting blood until he finally fell over.

“Why did you kill Judas, Sister?”

Charity laughed. “Because he was a bad rooster. Now, we’ve got to have another one.” She reached down but stopped when Meredith said, “Don’t get Ellen. She’s my favorite.”

Straightening up, Charity smiled and grinned. “All right then. You pick another one of these old chickens.”

“I don’t want to. The Bible says, ‘Thou shalt not kill.’”

“That doesn’t mean animals.”

“It doesn’t say that.”

“Don’t you remember, Meredith, we read in the Bible about how the Jews in the Old Testament would sacrifice animals— lambs, bulls, and birds?”

Meredith stood in the middle of the yard, staring at the black body of Judas still twitching. “Do chickens and animals go to heaven when they die?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Well, I wouldn’t want to go to heaven if Benny wasn’t there.” Benny had been her pet rabbit, and Meredith had not yet gotten over the loss of him.

Charity bent over and put her arms around the child. “Well, don’t you worry about it. Whatever heaven is like, it’s better than we think it is. Now, you run inside and peel some potatoes.”

“All right, but don’t kill Clara either.”

“I won’t kill Clara.” Charity watched as Meredith left the chicken yard and ran lightly toward the house. When the door closed, she stood for a moment pondering.
Where does that child get her imagination? From her mother, I guess, as I did.
She looked around at the chickens and then settled on one. “All right, Martha. I guess you had a full and happy life. Come here.”

* * *

THE KITCHEN WAS PLEASANTLY warm as Charity and her two sisters finished the cooking. A big red dog came through the door and nudged Charity, begging for some of the leftover dough.

“Sam, you go lie down. You’re not going to get anything to eat.” Sam eyed her mournfully, then dropped his head. He
put his tail between his legs, slouched toward the wall, and fell down as if shot.

Bronwen laughed. “You hurt his feelings, Charity. See how sad he looks.”

“Well, his feelings are too sensitive. As a matter of fact, he’s not the only one.”

“I hope you’re not talking about me,” Bronwen said sharply.

Suddenly, Meredith said, “They’re coming! I hear them!”

The three pulled on their coats, stepped outside, then advanced to the front of the yard. It was a part of the day that Charity loved, for the men always came home singing. Not all of them were Welsh, but many were, and they made a fine, strong male choir. She stood there, smiling slightly, listening as they sang “A Mighty Fortress Is Our God” by Martin Luther. The sound rose, filling the world, it seemed. Some of the voices were soft and gentle, mostly sopranos of the teenage boys who had already started work in the mine. Then there were the tenors rising above the others, the baritones who added body, and finally under all, the bass singers seemed to carry all the rest of them.

The men made a blackened army, for every face and all the hands were black with the coal that they dug from the bowels of the earth. She saw her father, Gwilym, and her brother, Evan, separate themselves and wave good-bye to their comrades. They broke off the singing, and as the others trooped by toward their homes, they came forward.

Gwilym Morgan was not a tall man, but heavy with muscle from a lifetime of digging coal. There was no excess flesh on him, and his teeth seemed very white against his coal-stained face as he smiled. “Well, Charity, I hope it’s a good supper you’ve got for us tonight.”

“Yes. You go get cleaned up, Pa.”

She turned to Evan and saw that beneath the black mask of the coal stains his face was dissatisfied, and he seemed depressed. “I’ve got some of your favorites tonight, Evan.”

“That’s good.” The voice seemed nearly lifeless, and as Evan moved past her to enter the house, Charity watched him with fear. She knew, as did they all, how Evan hated the coal mines and wished for something better. Charity wished he could have gone to university. He could have been anything, for he was an intelligent young man, but this had not been possible.

Pushing the thought aside as best she could, Charity went into the kitchen, shooing the girls ahead of her. They set the table and made the tea. She left the kitchen and went to the room built especially for the men to bathe. There were two enormous tubs, and the two men were already submerged in soapy water. Charity placed fresh underwear and other clothing on a table.

Evan cried out, “For heaven sakes, woman, is a man to have no modesty!”

Charity’s green eyes glittered, and she uttered a laugh. She had a deep voice for a woman. “Oh, you’re modest is it now? Maybe you don’t remember who changed your diaper for a couple of years.”

“That’s—that’s different!”

Charity picked up a bucket and scooped up the water as Evan lowered himself farther until only his head was out. “Your hair’s grimy.” She poured the water over him, and Evan started sputtering and splashing soapy water out of his eyes.

“You drive a man too hard, Charity Morgan! No wonder you can’t get a husband the way you treat us.”

Charity merely laughed at him and glanced at her father who had his eyes closed and was soaking in the luxury of the hot water. “You hurry up, Pa. We got a good supper tonight.”

“All right, Daughter. We’ll be there soon.”

Charity left the room, but when she was outside her brother’s words seemed to echo.
No wonder you can’t get a husband.

She had paid little attention at the moment, but now she stood still and wondered if there were some truth in the statement.
Am I too hard? Will no man ever love me?
These questions had come to her many times, for many of the young girls she had grown up with had already married and some of them had started their families. Like many healthy young women, Charity Morgan longed for a home of her own, but taking care of her brother, sisters, and father occupied her whole life. True, she had become somewhat sharp in having to discipline at least three of them, sometimes even her father who was kind but occasionally thoughtless.
Have I become a witch they all hate? Men must see that in me, I suppose.
She knew that her good looks had drawn men, but not one of them had pressed to suit, and the thought troubled her that, perhaps, she had grown too cantankerous for a man ever to love. She shook the thought off and returned to the kitchen.

The girls had everything in hand. They performed the final touches on the meal, and fifteen minutes later, Gwilym and Evan took their seats.

“Sit you down now before it gets cold,” Charity said.

“Smells good,” Gwilym said. “You’re as good a cook as your mother, Charity.”

“No, no one will ever be that good. You know that, Pa.”

The meal was indeed filling. All the vegetables were well seasoned; the potatoes had been boiled in their jackets and still had their flavor.

“Ask the blessing, Pa, so we can get started,” Bronwen said.