Angel Train Page 4

Charity was pouring tea for everyone. “I’d as soon be married to an old eel! They have more backbone than Charles Campbell.”

  Dai drained half his tea, boiling hot as it was, and winked at Gwilym. “She’ll marry a man with backbone, Gwilym, and he’ll take a broomstick to her.”

  Charity laughed. She liked Dai Bondo very much and was grateful to him for his help. “If you want more gingerbread and more tea, you’ll say no more about Mr. Charles Campbell.”

  Dai nodded and continued to eat his cake. Finally, he said, “Gwilym, people are saying the Pilgrim Way will scatter like a bunch of scared crows.”

  “No, that won’t happen!” Gwilym said firmly. “God put us together, and He’ll make a way for us to live.”

  “If you’re having my opinion”—Dai shrugged his massive shoulders—“the whole town is going to dry up and blow away.”

  Talk continued about the hard times and the possibility of the town ceasing to exist. “There’s no way for us to make a living here, Gwilym,” Dai said, and he shifted in his chair and put his big hands before him. They were scarred, and the knuckles were large and had been the quietus of many an opponent in the bare-knuckle fights. “This is going to be a ghost town in a few weeks. Seven families moved just this week.”

  “What do you suggest, Dai,” Gwilym said, “that we quit and go away in all directions?”

  “Let me show you something,” Charity said. Moving quickly to the table beside the window, she picked up a newspaper. It was folded, and she placed it before her father. “Look, Pa, I’ve been reading about Oregon.”

  “Aye, I’ve heard about that,” Dai Bondo said. “What does it say?”

  “What difference what it says! We can’t go to Oregon.”

  “Why not, Pa?” Charity said. “There’s free land there; that paper says so!”

  “Does it say it’s more than two thousand miles from here, and it’s a blinking wilderness?”

  “That’s what I understand,” Dai said, giving Charity a sharp look. “The redskins are thick out there.”

  “But there’s free land there. We could take up homesteads close to one another.” Charity spoke rapidly. She was excited at the news of the new country opening up on the West Coast. According to all reports, the land was fruitful and it was free. She turned her attention. “Dai, you’ve always talked about the mill your father owned for grinding corn. You could build one there and be a miller. No more grubbing in the mines.”

  Dai blinked with surprise. He was not a man who thought a great deal and had little philosophy, but the miner’s life was a hard one, and the best memories of his life were those days when he was a small boy. He had worked with his father in the grinding mill. “It sounds like a bit of heaven, but how do we get there? There are no railroads to Oregon.”

  “There are no roads either,” Gwilym said defiantly. “There’s no way.”

  “But wagon trains go all the time. Read what the story says.”

  “It’s foolish, Charity. Now say no more about it. It’s only a dream.”

  “Well, Pa, it may be only a dream, but it’s more than we’ve got now!”

  * * *

  CHARITY WAS WALKING ALONG her favorite pathway. It was a half mile from the village and relatively unspoiled. She had seen deer in this place, a sight that had thrilled her, and now she kept her eyes open for such a sight.

  The sun overhead was warm, and she stopped for a time and breathed in the freshness of the air. Winter was gone, and the warmth of summer lay ahead, a time she dearly loved.

  Suddenly, a figure appeared at the end of a lane. The man looked familiar, wearing a black suit and a hat such as no one wore in her village. As she came closer, she was delighted to realize it was her Uncle Paul Bryce. She cried out, “Uncle Paul!” and started to run toward him, but as she got closer, something happened to the man. She saw his face, a face she loved, for Paul Bryce, a brother to her dead mother, was partial to her. He was the warden at a state penitentiary not twenty miles away from the village, and he often came, sometimes with his family, to visit the Morgans.

  “Uncle Paul!” Charity cried out and then suddenly stopped for there was a serious look on her uncle’s face, and even as she watched, somehow he seemed to fade. Charity stood dead still and cried again, “Uncle Paul—Uncle Paul!” The figure before her motioned her, urging her to come to him but then seemed to turn into a mist and was gone.

  “Uncle Paul, what’s wrong?”

  Abruptly, the figure before her vanished, and Charity emerged from the vivid dream with a tiny cry. She sat up in the bed and stared into the gloom. The moon outside was throwing silver beams through the window, and she found herself trembling. The dream had been so real, and she went over it in her mind. She remembered how he had motioned toward her as if telling her to come with him.

  Charity had no watch nor clock, but she could tell it was close to dawn. Knowing that sleep would not be possible, she got out of bed, dressed quickly, and left her room. She went into the kitchen, started the fire, and soon made herself a cup of tea. Others would be getting up soon, but she could not think of breakfast.

  She had the Welsh feelings about dreams and visions. Her mother had been an imaginative woman believing greatly in dreams and their interpretations, but Charity had never experienced a thing like this. She thought about her Uncle Paul and how deeply he had loved her mother. The two had been very close. Since her death, Uncle Paul had visited often, bringing them gifts at Christmastime, and though Charity tried to shove the dream from her mind into the dark area of forgetfulness, she knew she would not be able for it was imprinted there as clearly as if it were painted on a canvas. She knew she would not speak of it to anyone, but she longed for her mother in a painful and poignant way.

  * * *

  CHARITY WALKED WITH MEREDITH and Bronwen toward the house that sat off the road. It was the house of Mr. Jonas Edwards, the schoolmaster in the village. Edwards had taught Charity and Evan, and now he was in charge of the education of her two sisters. “You two behave yourselves.”

  “I always behave myself,” Meredith said.

  “No, you don’t,” Bronwen argued, giving her an impatient look. “In our last lesson you paid no attention. You were looking at some bugs crawling on the window.”

  The door opened, and Jonas Edwards, a tall man with kindly features and a shock of salt-and-pepper hair, smiled. “Well, good morning. My scholars are here. How are you, Miss Charity?”

  “I’m fine.”

  “Come in. I’ll give you a report on these two, and a cup of tea, we’ll be having.”

  Twenty minutes later Edwards sat with Charity in the kitchen, pouring her tea. He had set the two young scholars to work, and now he said genially, “I’ve got a good report on your sisters. They’re both bright girls. Meredith especially. I think she’s going to be a scholar of some kind.” He smiled. “And Bronwen . . . maybe a writer of romance.”

  “A scholar would be better,” Charity smiled. She had always liked Mr. Edwards, and now she listened as he spoke of how well they were doing. Finally, the talk turned to the economic plight of the town. In answer to Charity’s questions about what was going to happen, Edwards frowned and put his cup down. He folded his hands and shook his head sadly.

  “I’m afraid there’s little hope, Charity. I’m going to have to move my family soon.”

  “You’d leave the village? Why, you’ve been here my whole life.”

  “I know, but the way things are happening, people are leaving, and there won’t be enough scholars for school and no one to pay my fees.”

  This was the greatest shock Charity had heard. She had been troubled, along with many others, about the fate of the village and the inhabitants, and now for Mr. Edwards to leave was worse than she had expected. Then she remembered her conversation about Oregon. “Tell me about Oregon, Mr. Edwards.”

  “Oregon, is it? Is your father thinking of going to Oregon?”

  “No sir, he’s not, but I am. We’ve got
to go somewhere, and I barely know where it is.”

  “Let me show you.” Edwards rose and pulled a large book from the shelf. He opened it up and turned it so she could look at it. “Here we are in Pennsylvania, and here is Oregon.”

  “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!”

  Chapter Four

  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?”