Jesse had said he’d been in prison camp with an older gentleman. Would that have been her father? She was almost sure of it but refused to ask him, angry that he’d played the game of raising her curiosity so she would ask.
She couldn’t imagine her father in pain. She remembered him riding up the road to their house, calling her name. Standing on the verandah where she’d been waiting, she stretched her arms up as high as she could and called “Papa!” She ran down the steps as he drew near and reined his horse to a halt a few feet away. He dismounted, swept her up into his arms, then swung her into the saddle and mounted behind her. Together they’d ride Hero to the stables.
She put her fists together beneath her chin, annoyed. She’d successfully banished good memories of him. But did she really want the familiar memory that had surrounded her heart with bitterness? The one of him leaving, promising to come back? The one which always followed it? Her mother’s eyes pleading to her and Eugenia to stay in hiding and keep quiet while she was dragged away by Union soldiers. Those memories had constricted her heart for years, but they were habitual, easy reminders. They bound the broken pieces of her young heart, keeping it in one piece and keeping her from being too soft, too trusting.
“He’s resting easy now.” Jesse’s voice, close by, startled her. She ignored him, annoyed that she’d been thinking about things that were over and done. Some things were settled, and it was too late for forgiveness.
Forgive, as I have forgiven you.
Startled, she turned quickly to see if Jesse had murmured the words. He stood nearby, braced by his arms on the silver curtain track overhead. A question was in his eyes. Suddenly feeling a need to get away, she said, “I’m going for a walk,” and she slipped out behind him before he could say anything.
Outside, in the breeze, she watched the ground up close as rocks and gravel sped by beneath the train. On the very edges of the crumbling, dusty banks beside the tracks, pink, blue, and yellow flowers stood undisturbed. If only she felt as serene as they appeared.
Jesse watched Mary leave, noticing she was troubled about something. That only reinforced his decision to have none of her petulance and use all the persuasiveness he could to get her to talk. He’d do it. Even if he had to fill up the quiet times with his own stories.
She needed to know some things about her father, especially what an exceptional man he was, and for both their sakes, she needed to let go of her anger.
Chapter 5
March 19, 1874
We arrived in Chicago today. I thought J. was an agreeable person, but he’s been bossy. He won’t quit referring to my father, although I distinctly told him I wouldn’t hear it. I told him politely, ignored him, and walked away, but he won’t let up. If he continues, I’ll have to resort to rudeness, and that could make the trip unbearable. Maybe I shouldn’t have talked of personal things yesterday.
I’m writing this in the luxury and privacy of our own drawing room. Wilfred Taylor and his nephew, Tommy, are sharing the room as far as Omaha. Although I didn’t mind the crowded car, it’s nice to relax and simply enjoy the countryside sliding by. And oh, what countryside it is! Leaving Chicago we passed through miles and miles of rich prairie land with houses in the distance and trees surrounding them like green walls.
The coachman came in, his brown face shining as he asked us if we were ready for him to make our beds. We were all curious and watched in fascination as he pulled the armchair seats in to meet in the middle, and the backs pulled out to lie level with the seats—a bed! The sofa pulled out and opened into a bed too. Tommy’s eyes almost popped out as he pulled down another bedstead from the ceiling! From overhead, he drew out mattresses, pillows, blankets, and curtains for the windows. When he left and locked the door, I felt as if I were in a castle on wheels.
I do wish Mr. H. would be content to escort me across the country without trying to be a friend. Last night I had to call him to task again. He and crotchety old Mr. Taylor were both in the war, so he talked of those experiences to keep Mr. T. awake and his attention off his pain. I finally became exasperated by stories of my father’s war experiences and told him to quit.
Within her curtained-off bed space, Mary’s eyes opened at the first light. Outside was more prairie, unfenced now, undivided, unmeasured, and unmarked. Awed by the enormity of miles and miles of land stretched out toward the horizon, she thought, this is what the word “West” means. Great spaces, droves of cattle in the distance, now and then a shapeless, lonely village. She stared, trying to fix it in her mind so she could describe it in her journal for Mrs. Palmer. In the pearly new light, the different colors of grass or grain dappled the ground.
She opened her Bible and read Proverbs, chapter ten. She closed it with a sigh, satisfied that she was doing right by making this trip. Nevertheless, one verse stayed with her: Verse eleven, “The mouth of a righteous man is a well of life…”
She said a quick prayer, then peeked out her curtain. Jesse lay on one of the armchair beds, his back to her. On the other, Tommy slept on his stomach, only his blond head visible on the pillow. Sitting on the sofa was Mr. Taylor, glaring back at her. Mary snapped her curtain shut. If only she could feel as kindly toward him as Jesse did. But she saw Tommy’s fear and uncertainty and wondered why Mr. Taylor didn’t. Or if he did, why wasn’t the older man more kind to the boy? Lord, help me watch what I say.
Enjoying the gentle sway of the train, she dressed and put her journal on the shelf. When she heard sounds of the men stirring, she pulled the curtains back to the wall.
Jesse and Tommy were sitting on Jesse’s bed with their heads bowed over a book.
“Good morning, Miss Mary!” Tommy looked up and grinned at her.
With a quick, shy glance at Jesse she answered, “Good morning to both of you. Tommy, want to take a look outside?” He rushed to the window and pressed his nose to it. This far back from the engine, sparks and soot were almost nonexistent.
Mr. Taylor emerged from the small water closet, a towel in his hands. He saw Mary and quickly pulled his suspenders over his shoulders.
“Good morning, Mr. Taylor.” She smiled tentatively, then looked down as she passed him on her way to the tiny room to freshen herself.
“Humph.” He shuffled past her.
She shut the door, wondering if the man ever smiled. When she emerged a few minutes later, the coachman was turning the beds back into sofas and easy chairs. He smiled as he left and told them the train would be stopping for breakfast in forty-five minutes. Jesse took Tommy to the platform for the cool morning air.
The moment the door clicked shut Mr. Taylor peered closely at her. “What have you got against your father? He sounds like a brave man.”
She stiffened her back and stared at him. A tense silence filled the small room.
“I beg your pardon, Mr. Taylor, but I prefer not to discuss my family.”
Taylor snorted. “You were willing to discuss mine last night. Prattling on about how I should look forward to meeting my dear family.”
“I did not prattle! I merely—”
“Told me how I should feel.” He didn’t smile, but his eyes gleamed. “You don’t know them, and you don’t know me nor what they done to me. Yet you gave me advice.”
Baffled, Mary stared at him, not knowing what to say.
Taylor continued. “Your father sounds better than my stinkin’ family, and I think you should look forward to seeing him. There. How do you like that advice, Miss?” His eyebrows shot up, and he scrutinized her. “You got somethin’ against him?”
“I—he—” She couldn’t turn away from his fierce gaze. The train swayed, its rocking motion breaking the spell. She yanked her gaze away, toward the passageway windows.
“Looking for a way out? Do you always run from trouble?”
She looked back at him. He waited, challenging her to respond. He was enjoying this! His thin-lipped animosity goaded her to reply, “Mr. Taylor, I don’t wish to be rude, but neither will I discuss
my personal life. If you refuse to speak of more pleasant matters, I must leave.”
He chuckled. “Let’s talk about that Bible on your shelf.”
She glanced at her Bible. “Are you seriously interested in discussing scriptures?”
“I am.” He leaned forward. “Do you believe that tons of water in the Red Sea just stood up, leaving a wide road which miraculously dried up in an instant for more than a million people to walk across?”
She wasn’t sure if the eyes looking up beneath his bushy gray eyebrows were sincere or mocking. “Of course I believe it. God spoke and created it all. He could just as easily speak and change it.” She tossed the question back at him. “Do you believe it, Mr. Taylor?”
He laced his fingers together, staring down at his hands. “Well, I haven’t made up my mind about that one.” He was silent for a minute, then said, “You probably believe there really was a Tower of Babel.”
“Of course.” Mary relaxed somewhat, wondering where he was going with this comment.
“Then you believe that men got so smart they built a tower almost all the way up to heaven, scared God ’cause He thought they’d walk right in on Him sometime, so He put a stop to it by scrambling their language. That right?”
“Nothing scares God. He did what He thought was best. He always does.” Was he sneering? Was he serious? She couldn’t tell. He simply looked down at his clasped hands. Was this old curmudgeon softening?
She sat in the armchair across from him. “Mr. Taylor,” she said softly, “those topics are interesting, but what matters is whether you believe what the Bible says about Jesus. When you decide He is who the Bible says He is and accept Him in your heart, these other things become more clear to you.”
He continued to sit stone still, his hands clasped together between his knees. Father, soften his heart and give me the right words. Mary leaned forward. “Let’s talk about Jesus.”
Taylor jerked upright, his back stiffly away from the chair and scowled at her. “You’re preaching at me?” Indignation shone in his eyes. “Harcourt already tried that. At least he doesn’t hide ill feelings toward none of his kin.”
Mary shot up out of the chair. She swallowed hard, trying not to reveal the anger which almost choked her. The old crosspatch was toying with her, and she refused to play his game. “I bid you good morning,” she said and opened the passageway door. Before she shut it she added, “I intend to pray for you, sir.” She left with his mocking laughter ringing in her ears.
She fled through the train, across the platforms, and through crowded cars. Nearing the front of the train, she opened the door to people harmonizing to “The Man on the Flying Trapeze.” Some stood in the aisles, others sat sideways, singing along. Someone squeezed a concertina, and those who didn’t know the words kept time by clapping.
Halfway down on the left, she saw a young pregnant woman, her feet propped up on a valise. She beckoned to Mary. “I saw you when I boarded in Chicago. My name is Elizabeth.”
Mary knelt beside her. “I’m pleased to meet you. My name is Mary.”
“Sing along, if you know the song. I can’t carry a tune, but I do love the singing.” The woman beside her leaned forward, belting out the end of the chorus, “my heart he has stolen away!”
A man across from Elizabeth got up, gaily continuing to sing, and with a flourish offered Mary his seat. She happily took it and spent the next twenty minutes away from Jesse’s hard questions and Mr. Taylor’s scowls. The train slowed as the singers launched into “Little Brown Jug,” and Mary reluctantly left her new friend to make her way back to the parlor car.
Jesse and Tommy had returned, and Mr. Taylor ignored her as though nothing had happened. She thought she saw the hint of a smile on his face but decided it was most likely a grimace. She’d never seen the man smile. They all exited the train for another hasty breakfast.
They’d had no more personal discussions all morning. Mary studied her geography book, making notes. Jesse spent time teaching Tommy to make knots. Mr. Taylor reclined on the sofa, resting.
About noon the train slowed to a crawl. Mary peered out and saw nothing but a line of tracks heading away from them like a thin thread lying across the prairie. The brakes squealed, and they stopped. “Look, Tommy! Another train!” It puffed its way down the tracks, its passengers gaily waving handkerchiefs. She gave Tommy one, Jesse opened the windows, and they waved back. Leaning her head out the window, Mary saw a line of white handkerchiefs fluttering from their own train. After the other train cleared their tracks, they moved on.
“They’re probably going to Denver,” said Jesse as the other train disappeared into the distant horizon.
Mary snapped her head around, surprised to find him so close. She was so caught up in the handkerchief greetings she hadn’t heard him approach. His knee was on the ledge near her, and he was so close their noses almost touched. She felt consumed by his alert gaze.
She was glad he straightened at that moment because she felt a rush of heat climb up her neck to her cheeks. What is happening to me? I feel flustered. She grabbed her geography book and held on tightly as she looked out at a grove of trees in the distance.
Alone again, the way she liked it, Mary opened the geography book but found it difficult to concentrate. She kept thinking about Jesse, and that irritated her. With a shrug, she yanked her concentration back to the book. Hungary. Borders on Romania to the east, Austria to the west… Eugenia’s placid brown face smiled in her mind. Finally Mary could no longer pull her wandering mind back to Baltic Europe. She lay the book down on her lap and gazed out the window, thinking of Eugenia’s last words to her. The four of them prayed together before she left, Eugenia reminding her that until she forgave her father she’d have a hurting place that would not heal, and unless she gave it up to God, it would cast a shadow on her life for years.
The prairie, which had been perfectly flat out of Chicago, had grown more and more rolling, now broken by deep ravines and sweeping hills. A dark belt of forest lined the western horizon.
Jesse and Tommy joined her at the window. Jesse held out a hand to Mary. “Want to go out to the platform and get a wider view? That green strip is trees along the Missouri River.”
Tommy’s eyes widened. “Are we almost there?”
Mary smiled at him. What a sweet boy. She put her hand on his soft, blond curls. “I think we are.” Buoyed by his excitement, she took Jesse’s hand, and they went out.
On the platform, Mary leaned out the opposite side and saw in the distance a town on a hill—a lovely view. Crowned at the top was a large white building overlooking the city.
Jesse lifted Tommy and held him tightly. “Omaha,” he declared. Tommy stared hard, as if trying to see his family waiting for him.
Mary touched his arm. “God has a good plan for you, Tommy.” The boy’s gaze held hers, looking for reassurance. He smiled absently, then looked back at his new home. She drew a deep breath, thinking how far she was from home and yet not even halfway across the continent.
The train slowed, and soon, in Council Bluffs, at the foot of the hills, all passengers boarded mammoth omnibuses, and with mail wagons, express and baggage wagons piled high, were ferried across the river to Omaha. “Wow!” Tommy breathed in awe, unable to take his eyes off a steamer puffing away from the Omaha landing on its way downriver.
Jesse watched Mary, unable to forget the spark of something in her eyes. Was it a trace of sadness? Need? For a moment it seemed like deep loneliness; then the look was gone, replaced by her mask of calm control.
He wondered if she allowed anyone to really know her, to share her thoughts and dreams. He saw a lovely, sweet woman with a hurt too deep to face. It’s not easy being surrounded by people but having no one to trust, no one in whom to confide. Lord, she needs to talk to You about this and trust You to take the pain away. And I know You do all things in Your time, but I think Mary should come to forgiveness for her father before we get to San Francisco. Help me to reassure he
r it’s the right thing to do.
Chapter 6
March 20, 1874
I can hardly write all the things that happened yesterday. We truly crossed from our comfortable, familiar East and into the West. Oh, what that word means! Wide-open spaces, a world so very different it is difficult to imagine, even from the literature I’ve read. And J. tells me this is only the beginning.
I’ve described the landscape in the trip journal, but I continue to marvel. From the flat prairies to the hills of Council Bluffs, across the Missouri River with steamers heading for places with exotic names, to the shrieking locomotives, and the crowds! In Omaha I heard at least six different languages spoken by people holding checks, clamoring for their luggage, which sat behind a high wooden wall. One poor woman knelt beside her chest, which had broken open during the journey, crying and speaking Norwegian to the kind souls who helped stuff her belongings back inside and tied the chest with ropes.
It’s hard to believe what happened when Mr. Taylor and Tommy met their family. The grandparents rejoiced with tears. They ran to Tommy with open arms. Taylor nodded slightly to his mother, stood back, then coldly turned to walk away! The mother reached out and called his name, but he didn’t look back. His father glared at his retreating back while comforting his wife. Mr. Taylor lost himself in the crowd; we never saw him again.
It should have been a tender scene. I’ll never forget the look in Tommy’s eyes as he watched his uncle leave. J. went after Taylor, but he was unable to convince him to reconcile with his family. So sad.
I had to laugh at J., frowning at a fierce but jolly-looking miner who tipped his hat at me. There were many of them, all boots and beards, striding about, watching their rifles or guns and strapped rolls of muddy blankets….
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