Angel Train (4 page)

“That’s a fearful long way, sir.”

“More than two thousand miles.”

“Pa says there’s no good way to get there.”

“Well, of course, you can take a sea voyage and go by Cape Horn, around South America, but that’s terribly expensive. It costs more than three hundred dollars for a single passenger.”

“We could never afford that.”

“No, most people go in wagon trains. The trains are made up in Independence, Missouri.” He put his finger on the map. “Then they follow what’s called the Oregon Trail all the way along here until they get to Vancouver and then Oregon City. I’ve read a good deal about it.”

“It’s a long, long journey,” she whispered. “Pa’s against it.”

“Well, it’s not a thing to be undertaken lightly,” Edwards said, shaking his head sadly, “but, in a way, the whole movement over the Oregon Trail has been good for Pennsylvania.”

“And how is that, sir?”

“Well, they have to have good wagons, and the best ones, Conestoga wagons, are made right here in Pennsylvania. The
wagon makers and wheelwrights are working around the clock.”

“What about the land there? It’s free, I’ve heard. I’ve been wondering if it might not be a place for our people to go. Free land is not to be sneezed at.”

Edwards studied the young woman. He had a real affection for her and her brother Evan and now was troubled at what she was proposing. “Well, it’s called free land, Charity, but it’s not really.”

“How is that, sir?”

“Well, people die trying to get there—cholera, storms, Indian attacks—and when you get there, there’s a forest. You’d have to fell huge trees. It’s not Plains country, you understand. You’ll have to hew a farm out of the wilderness.” He suddenly had a thought and rose again. Going to his bookshelf, he picked two books and said, “Here, you might like to read these. This one is just a cheap dime novel.”

Charity took the book. It was printed on cheap paper, and there was a crude illustration on the front of a young woman talking to an Indian woman. The title was
Esther: A Story of the Oregon Trail.

“The story’s just a romance. It’s not much, but you get more of a feeling from this book.” She took the other book he handed her. “James Fenimore Cooper has written a whole series of books about the frontier. I think he sort of romanticized the Indians, the natives there, but you should read it if you’re interested.”

“Thank you, Mr. Edwards.” She took the books, turned the pages over, and knew she would read them at once. She waited until the lessons were over and then led the two girls home. They were chattering like squirrels, as young girls did, but Charity heard none of it.
So it would be a hard journey, but
there would be a place for us, and we could stay together.
The thought warmed her, and she knew she would have to tell her father about it, but she rather dreaded it.

That night at supper, she waited until after the meal and then told the family what Mr. Edwards had said about the Oregon Territory.

Her father listened carefully; then his mouth drew into a tight line. “It’s impossible, girl. More than two thousand miles in a wagon and with wild Indians and sickness. Don’t even think of it!”

Evan, however, said, “I’d like to read one of those books while you’re reading the other one. I’d like to go to a place like that.”

Charity felt encouraged for she had at least one supporter, but she knew her father would have to be convinced.

Later, as Evan was helping her wash the dishes, he said, “Charity, I must leave this place.”

“Where would you go, Evan?”

“I don’t know,” he said, and there was a grim quality to his voice. She recognized it for she had heard it a few times when he made up his mind and couldn’t be dissuaded. “I don’t know where I’ll go, but it won’t be to a mine.”

“You always wanted to be a farmer.”

“I could be one in Oregon.”

Charity sighed and put the last dish up. “But Father’s hard against it.”

“Well, Oregon or someplace else. I’m not going to spend my life grubbing underground like a blind mole!”

THE MEETING HOUSE THAT the men of the Pilgrim Way had built was plain—a simple frame structure with a hard pine floor and a twelve-foot-high ceiling. The furniture was as basic as the building itself. The hard pews, built of rough lumber, had straight backs so it was impossible to get comfortable in them. A waist-high table, two and a half feet square, served as a pulpit for the preacher, and the four windows on each side admitted the bright morning sunlight as Gwilym Morgan stood behind the pulpit.

Most of the people he looked out on he had known all of his life, and now he saw in their faces a nervousness and a lack of assurance that troubled him. He had prayed much over how to speak so that they would face their problems with faith in God, but he saw on every face apprehension and even fear.

The one exception was Karl Studdart, a tall, broad man of German heritage, with blond hair and blue eyes. There was no fear in Studdart, and Gwilym was well aware that Karl thought he was a more suitable leader of the group than himself. His wife, Freida, sat beside him, and beside her Helga, their sixteen-year-old daughter. Gwilym thought quickly,
Karl wants to be the leader of the group, and in some ways he would
be better, but one thing is sure, he’s not afraid of this journey that we’re contemplating. We can count on him.

Malcolm Douglas and his wife, Ann, sat with their children, Will, Elizabeth, and Henry, all under the age of ten. Malcolm, at the age of thirty-two, was no more than average size. He had rusty hair and blue eyes and had originally come from Scotland. He had lost most of his accent but not all.
A good steady man but not convinced that this is the way to go. Oregon seems like a million miles away to him, but I think we can win him.

Next to the Douglases was the Brand family—fifty-year-old Nelson; his wife, Kate; their son, Tom, a tall, good-looking boy with brown hair and brown eyes; and seventeen-year-old Alice. Brand had little boldness about him although he was one of the elders of the church and could be counted on in most things. He was timid, however, about this trip and had already spoken of his fears to Gwilym.
I’ll have to win him over, but he’s a good man.

Halfway back, Frank Novak, age thirty-one, stared at Gwilym. Novak had black hair and dark blue eyes that revealed his Slavic ancestry. His wife Marva, three years younger, was a strongly built woman with dark brown hair and eyes.
It’s hard to know about Frank. He doesn’t talk much, but I’ve heard that he’s opposed to this trip. He’d be a good man to have on the train. I’ll have to be sure to try and convince him after the meeting.

On the other side from the Novaks was the Dekker family. Jacob Dekker was in his midforties, a sturdy man of Dutch ancestry with blond hair and clear blue eyes. His wife, Sofie, was a heavy-set woman with the same blonde hair and blue eyes. Kirsten was their daughter, and their three sons, Hans, Fritz, and Paul, ranged from eighteen- to twenty-four-years-old. Gwilym had tried to sound out the Dekkers, but Jacob
was a slow-moving man and could not seem to make up his mind.

On the same bench were Jacob’s parents, Konrad and Minna. They were both short people and both had silver hair.
They’re old to be making the trip,
Gwilym thought.
They’re in their seventies. They’ll go to be with their family.

As his eyes scanned the congregation, Gwilym considered Nolan Cole. Cole was only twenty-eight, six feet tall, one hundred eighty pounds, and well built. He had black hair and hazel eyes. He was a strong-willed man, given to having his own way. He wasn’t a good husband, which most recognized, and wasn’t popular with his neighbors. His wife, Marzina, sat beside him, and Gwilym noted that they did not sit close together. He knew she was unhappy, but there was nothing a man could do to fix a mismatched couple.

In front of the Coles were York Wingate and his wife, Helen. York was not a tall man, no more than five-nine, very wiry with crisp brown hair and brown eyes. He was a doctor, and his wife had been Helen Dekker, daughter of Jacob and Sofie. Gwilym had particularly wanted this couple to go, for a doctor on a journey this long would be needed, without a doubt.

Gwilym glanced over the rest of the group and, noticing restlessness, said, “Friends, we will now stand and give thanks to our Father for His goodness.” The congregation stood, and he prayed a brief prayer, ending with, “Lord, You led Abraham out into a land he had never seen. You kept him safe from enemies and wild animals, and we are asking You, O righteous Father, to guide Your people in that way. In the name of Jesus, we will ask this. Amen.”

A few amens floated across the room, echoing Gwilym’s benediction, and he continued, “I am well aware, brethren,
that some of you are apprehensive about this proposed trip to Oregon, and you do well to be thoughtful for it is a long journey, and there are dangers.” Gwilym spoke earnestly and finally he said, “As is our custom, we are one body, and there is no ruler or master here. Each man is the priest in his household, so I will now leave the floor open for discussion of the way we should take.”

At once Karl Studdart stood. He had a thick neck, strong hands, and a determined look on his face. “Brother Gwilym,” he said, “I have prayed much, and I and my family are agreed that we must go from this place. There’s nothing for us here. The question is, should it be Oregon, and I say to you now that if that is the will of the body here, then my family and I will certainly join in the pilgrimage.”

He spoke for some time with a rough sort of eloquence, and there was a forcefulness in the man that people naturally looked to. He ended by saying rather enigmatically, “We are of necessity forced to trust in our leadership, and let us pray that God will give us leadership in a way that will not guide the Pilgrim Way astray.”

Gwilym nearly smiled.
This is Karl’s way of saying, I am the natural born leader of this group. It’s time for Gwilym Morgan to step down.
He said merely, “Thank you, Brother Karl. Now could I hear from the others? Is there anyone else?”

Sturdy and with piercing blue eyes Jacob Dekker stood up. “I have troubled about this journey, Brother Gwilym. None of us have been this way before.”

“We could all drive wagons,” Studdart spoke up. “That’s the way we will get there.”

“Yes, we can drive wagons, but we know nothing about fighting Indians or even the way. There will be decisions to
make. I am not sure we are ready for this, not until we look at all other possibilities.”

One by one the members rose, and each man said something. Most of them were filled with doubt, and York Wingate spoke for all when he said, “It troubles me, Brother Morgan, that none of us have been over this trail. We are not frontiersmen. I think that the proper thing would be to find men who could go with us and teach us the way to make this journey.”

A murmur of ascent went over the congregation, and at once Gwilym said, “That is a wise suggestion, Brother Wingate, and we will do exactly that.” He knew that the group was still divided and that some action was needed to draw them together. They were a small enough group as it was, and all of them had heard that the larger the wagon train the safer it was from Indian attack.

“We will take this day for fasting and prayer and seek God’s leadership,” Gwilym said. He went to the bench in the front and knelt and soon was joined by others, and the building was filled with the murmurs of intercession as members of the Pilgrim Way sought God.

* * *

NONE OF THE WOMEN had spoken in the meeting. This was customary with the Way. Any leadership the women had was the ability to influence their husbands who would then make the public announcements. Charity had listened carefully, and during the service one thing had become clear. She had not been able to escape the dream of her Uncle Paul motioning to her. She believed strongly that some dreams had meaning, and she had decided she would visit the prison.

Her father was agreeable for the Morgans had all visited the prison to bear witness of the gospel to the inmates as well as to take books, tracts, and gifts of food. “I think it would be a good thing if you would go see your uncle, but you must not be gone too long.”

“Two days at the most. You know how much I enjoy Uncle Paul. I’ll cook all day tomorrow to take things to the prisoners, and I’ll take the buggy if it’s all right.”

“It’s somehow unseemly for a young woman to be going about the country alone. Maybe Evan should go with you.”

“I’ll ask him, Pa.”

Evan declined Charity’s invitation, and the next day she spent cooking with Bronwen’s help. By bedtime they had cooked a mountain of cookies, several cakes, and pies. She knew the inmates got hungry for sweets, and she was exhausted by the time she’d finished.

The next morning she rose early, and Evan helped her load the wagon. “I’ll go with you if you think I should, Sister,” he said, his eyes troubled.

“I’ll be glad to have you, but you don’t have to, Evan, if you’ve got things to do here.”

“I’m not very good at talking to prisoners,” Evan admitted. “I never know what to say to them. You talk like a magpie.” He grinned. “Whatever do you find to talk about?”

“Oh, it doesn’t matter. They’re hungry for any kind of conversation.”

“Especially from a pretty woman, I would guess. You have a way with them.”

Finally the buggy was loaded, and she spoke to the horses and turned to wave, “Good-bye, Bronwen. Good-bye, Meredith. Good-bye, Evan—Pa. I’ll be careful.”

She looked forward to the trip for it would give her time to think. She had thought of little but her dream and knew from the meeting at the church that something must happen soon. She prayed all the way to the prison, fifteen miles away, and reached it well before dark. Her uncle’s house was close to the prison, which was surrounded by thick, high walls. The sight of them always gave her a chill, and her visits always brought a sense of pain that men should be locked up like animals, but she knew it had to be.

“Whoa, Queenie,” she said as she pulled up in front of the house. She started to get down and saw her Uncle Paul Bryce walking rapidly out of the house.

“Charity!” he cried. “How good to see you!” He reached up and lifted her down easily. He was a tall man, lean and strong, with the reddish hair and the gray eyes that his sister, Charity’s mother, had.

“It’s good to see you, Uncle Paul. Look, I’ve got all kinds of goodies here for the prisoners. What shall we do with them?”

Eileen Bryce came hurrying out. She was forty-six, a handsome blonde with light green eyes. “Charity, I’m so glad you’ve come.” The two women embraced, and she added, “It looks like you brought enough to feed the world.”

“It won’t be nearly enough, but I like to bring something. I brought a lot of tracts, too, Uncle Paul.”

“Well, the prisoners will take the tracts if you put them alongside a slice of pie.” He smiled. “You’re getting prettier every time I see you.”

“You’re just trying to get some of my pies, Uncle Paul.” Charity smiled and patted his arm. “Let’s get these inside, or should we take them directly to the prison?”

“I think I’ll take them to the prison. You stay here and visit with Eileen. You can distribute them and visit in the morning. How long can you stay?”

“Oh, until you get tired of me.”

“Well, that will never happen,” Eileen smiled. She was very fond of Charity and all the other children. Both she and her husband spoiled them dreadfully every chance they got. “Come on in now. You must be tired. The food’s still hot. Still on the stove.” She led Charity inside, and Charity sank into a chair, accepting the food and hot coffee gratefully. As she ate, she gave Eileen the news of the family, and then when her Uncle Paul came back, she had to tell it again.

“What’s happening?” he said, taking a cup of coffee from Eileen. “Is the family well?”

“Very well, Uncle Paul, but there’s a great deal of difficulty facing us.”

“Difficulty? What sort of difficulty?” Warden Bryce listened as his niece outlined the problem. He was a highly intelligent man and kept up with national affairs. It turned out he knew a great deal about the exodus to Oregon, and the three of them talked for a long time about the possibility. Finally, Paul said, “Well, Charity, it’s a difficult trip. Dangerous, even deadly, and I’d be sorry to see you and your family settle so far away.”

“We’d miss you, too,” Charity said, “but we’ve got to do something.”

Paul Bryce had never been an intimate member of the Pilgrim Way. He thought the Pilgrims were too narrow, and he was a member of the Methodist Church as was his wife. He still had great faith in the small group, especially in Gwilym and his family. “Well,” he said finally, “while you’re here, maybe God will open a door.”

“I was reading that in the Bible last night,” Eileen said suddenly. “It’s in the book of Revelation. God said to one of the churches, I forget which, I set before you an open door.”

“That’s what we need, Aunt Eileen,” Charity responded, “a door.” She hesitated. “I had a dream about you, Uncle Paul.”

“Well, there are young women dreaming about me all over this country.” Paul winked at her and ignored Eileen’s sniff. “What was the dream?” He listened as Charity related the dream, and then he said, “So, that’s why you’ve come.”

“Well, I’m always glad to see you and to have a chance to bear witness to the prisoners and to do what I can for them. But, yes, I believe some dreams mean something.”

“Well, they did to Joseph and to Jacob and to Paul. He dreamed he saw a man from Macedonia, saying, ‘Come over and help us.’ So if there’s some reason for you to be here, we’ll have to find it. Now, let’s you and I go in and sit before the fire and—”

“No, I’m going to help Aunt Eileen with the dishes, then we’ll all three sit before the fire.”

“Good for you!” Eileen exclaimed. “He’s the laziest man I’ve ever seen,” but she smiled as she spoke, and the three immediately started clearing the dishes.

* * *

THE PRISON HAD ALWAYS frightened Charity, and she was not easily frightened. There was a fetid smell about the place that she thought was the smell of fear. Of course, there were other bad odors, too, that seemed to have sunk into the concrete walls of the prison, but the physical aspects were only part of the difficulty. Everything was gray and hard and cold. The
strange lean faces that looked out at her from between the bars gave the appearance of vicious animals. She always managed to cover her fears and managed a smile each time she talked to one of the inmates. They came in all shapes and sizes. Some men with white hair and gaunt faces had all goodness and benevolence leeched out of them by their lives and by the prison itself. Some were very young, and she encountered one of the youngest during her morning visitation.