by Caryl McAdoo
He’d nothing better to do. Truth be known, neither had she. The time meant nothing… So why did it consume her thoughts? Why did he?
Wallace Rusk! It was all his fault. Why had he been so stubborn? She could have been perfectly happy at home with him right that minute, but no! She found herself steaming across the middle of the Gulf on her way to California.
Somehow out of place in the home she’d grown up in—her husband suddenly gone—she’d looked forward to the trip.
Visiting with her sisters would be fun, and she’d finally meet her son…or daughter. It’d certainly be grand, but…. Her heart weighed so heavy within, made it hard to breathe…breath after breath, each an effort.
Marcus’s smiling face materialized before her mind’s eye.
Why should she still be thinking about him?
The man wasn’t interested in her, and had made his way north—the opposite direction she sailed. The flirt only needed a diversion, someone to distract himself, pass a little time on his trip. Well, that’s all she’d desired, too. So what?
She rolled over, scooted off the bed, then retrieved the drawing he’d made of her. She studied it for a minute. If only she looked like that. The way he saw her. But then, he was obviously nothing more than a flatterer.
Maybe she should write Mama May, perhaps even send a wire.
The artist had a gift. Could be exactly what she and her stepmother both needed.
She pulled out pen and paper.
October 13, 1865
Two days out from New Orleans on the SS Orizaba.
Greetings, Mama and Daddy.
No, I’m not in any trouble. Rather, I’m in fine health, and hopefully, this finds you both as well. Daddy, you’ll never guess who boarded the stage in Mouth Pleasant. Fine, I know you don’t like guessing games, so I’ll tell you.
Major Marcus Ford!
He was on his way to Nashville where he planned to interview for a teaching post at the East Tennessee University. Of course, he inquired over you and Levi…and the boys. He’d heard about Wallace and expressed his condolences, but.…
She twirled her pen around her fingers. How should she explain about spending the night with his past officer? Her father would surely read in much more than the truth of the time with the handsome major.
After all, the hours had passed quite innocently with only conversation and Marcus sketching her.
She leaned back and thought it through. Deciding to stick with the bare bones and leave out the time element all together, she finished her letter.
There’d be an opportunity to post it, and any others she might write, in Colon before she boarded the train. The old folks would have it in ten days, two weeks at the most.
Once she returned to Texas, if Mama showed any interest, she and her new baby could travel to Nashville and see Marcus. That would be a fun trip. Well, but what if she adopted an infant? That might prove too much.
And how could she possibly travel alone at all with two children? Perhaps Bonnie would consider coming back with her.
But… Was that really what she wanted to do?
Before, she’d laid out her plan so clearly. At least in her mind. Right that minute, doubt nipped her future’s vision, blurring everything.
And out of the fog…always the Major…handsome, debonair, and flattering her with all sorts of lies that she loved hearing.
Ford daubed a tiny fleck of blue on the plate and leaned back. Perfect or as near as possible. To his left, the bench—once loaded with china—sat empty. He stood, stretched, then surveyed the last set.
Shame he couldn’t keep it. Rebecca would love it.
For a few beats of his heart, he envisioned the beauty sipping tea from the dainty cup, but made himself put a future with the Widow Rusk out of his thoughts. First, he had to get himself to California.
For all he knew, right that minute, some other galoot was filling her head with sweet words of love. Any man in her presence and of a sane mind, would be a lunatic not to.
On their own, his fists balled. No. He willed himself calm and unfurled his fingers, flashing them several times.
That wasn’t probable. The lady, too soon a widow, couldn’t be interested in another man yet. Could she? Should she? He’d been a widower much longer and hadn’t been a bit interested.
Wallace hadn’t been two full years in the grave.
Images of Rebecca flitting from one dandy to another amongst half a dozen or more suitors taunted his mind’s eye. Ridiculous.
What was he doing to himself? He focused on the brushes, needed to clean them before seeing Miss Daisy about his money. For sure, he didn’t need to stand there making himself fool crazy over the widow.
With the tools of the trade cleaned and stored away, he strolled into the lady’s office. Miss Daisy, the boss. She’d always been a hard worker. Had his mother sold the business to her or simply left her in charge?
Made no difference one way or the other. Humming an old hymn, she sat behind her desk and made entries into a large leather ledger.
Closing his eyes, he waited and enjoyed her throaty alto.
She looked up. “Taking a break?”
“No, ma’am. I finished the tenth set. Came to collect my wage.”
Not at all like the sweet servant of yore, shot him a rather unpleasant expression as she hurried past him, heading toward the workshop. He trailed her. Of course. She wanted to check his work.
Any competent manager would. Couldn’t fault the woman for that…even though she should’ve known his capability.
She inspected his art then faced him with the white-toothed grin he remembered. “Excellent job! I should’ve known.”
“That’s what I thought.” He smiled as big, teasing her.
“But there’s a fly in the ointment now.”
“How so?”
She filled her lungs and skewed her head to the side a half tilt. The lady looked rather pathetic. “Well, sir. I thought I had more time. I’ve got money coming. It’s on its way, but…”
Both hands came up, palms facing her. “Hold it right there, Miss Daisy, ma’am. I mean no disrespect, but my ship sails this evening, and I intend to be on it. How much do you have?”
“Twenty-three dollars is all I have for you right now, Mister Marcus, and that’s only if I empty my mattress. I’ll have the rest in a day or so. Can’t you delay leaving? Keep on painting and then you’ll have twice as much to leave with. Don’t that make good sense?”
“It might if I weren’t in such a hurry. But no. I’m leaving this evening. Give me what you can.”
She shrugged then hurried back toward the shop. As she passed him, an idea struck. “Wait a minute.”
Stopping, she turned around. “What?”
“You’ve got pigment. And oil. Do you have any canvasses?”
“A few. What of it? What you thinking?”
“Besides the cash, figure it out and pay me the rest in supplies.”
The lady smiled. “Done.”
In the end, Miss Daisy still owed him a little and threw in a well-wrapped tea set. Hopefully for Rebecca, but if necessary.…
Maybe he could find a patron onboard who would commission him for a portrait or perhaps sell a scenic rendering for a traveler to remember the voyage by. And if not, well then… He’d cross that bridge—or rather gulf and ocean—when he got there.
Then as though luck changed for the better—though Rebecca claimed no such thing existed—outside the office of the Pacific Mail Steamship Company, someone had posted a sign that shone like a beacon on a dark night.
‘Wooders Wanted.’
“Four on, eight off, and I get a bunk and three squares from here to Colon, Panama?”
“Yes, sir.” The man slid a printed piece of paper toward him. “Sign or make your mark right here.” He tapped his pudgy index finger near the bottom.
“No pay?”
“Passage and meals.” The clerk shrugged. “What more do you want?”
How hard could shoveling coal be?
Seeing to the ton of goods Rebecca booked to San Francisco for the Mercantile almost cost her a first class berth. A small bribe slipped to the Panama Railroad agent helped him to find one last suite that had suddenly became available.
Inwardly, she thanked her daddy for reminding her to use the gold to open doors.
How often had he told her his own personal ‘Golden Rule’? He who has the gold, makes the rules.
She loved having money.
Shame Marcus wasn’t there with her. She’d enjoy the trip so much more. But what would her daddy and brothers and sisters think of her? Taking up with a man she hardy knew. And with Wallace barely gone?
Except… she could have hired him to be her bodyguard! Oh, why hadn’t she thought of it? Or… She put that notion away. Or nothing, silly woman. She didn’t want him to be a hired man.
Hmm. What did she want him to be? If anything at all? Mercy. As dear as Wallace had been, he was hard enough to live with at times. What if Marcus turned out to be little more than a big flirt?
It would break her heart for him to turn his charms on another woman.
Her jaws clinched. What in the world was she doing? Why was she even still thinking about the man? She had her plans, and he didn’t fit into them. But could he?
Why he remained with her puzzled her. She thought back to all her suiters. Wallace and his never-ending pursuit. None of them ever made her insides quiver like Marcus Ford.
She could not seem to shake his memory loose. It clung like a goathead sticker in the hem of her dress.
With a smile, she pondered her metaphor. So what? Goatheads weren’t so bad. Better than sandburs. She needed to… What? Turn right around and go straight to Nashville? How ridiculous would that be?
No. She couldn’t chase after him. Wouldn’t make a crazy fool of herself.
Maybe on the way home, she could make a detour. If she still had to deal with those troublesome stickers.
The train’s whistle sounded. A little jerk preceded the station moving slowly by. Well, of course, the other way around. Ha! Too late to turn back then.
Too bad, Mister Ford. She’d be in Panama City in a few hours and from there, on to San Francisco.
Marcus Ford would have to wait.
And she would just have to make herself think on her sisters and the orphans and the wonderful sights passing her by.
Panama City surprised Rebecca. Its temperature proved quite comfortable, though warmer than Colon. Not as humid. And so rich in history! She never dreamed that the original Central American city had been founded over three hundred years earlier.
It reminded her somewhat of New Orleans, perhaps due to the Spanish influence of both.
Shame she didn’t have time to explore the place, or someone to watch over her while she did.
Had she known how beautiful and different the land was and of all the interesting places to visit offered there, she would have planned a longer layover. She’d love to wander around the area a few days.
Maybe she still could. After all, she’d probably never have the opportunity again. Not if she was to become a mother in the next month.
With no instigation on her part, Marcus Ford suddenly popped into her thoughts. Would he ever steer clear of them? Or just constantly jump into her musings at will?
The pesky gentleman would do nicely to keep an eye out over her, and would surely enjoy searching new lands and its sites with her. If only he hadn’t chosen to leave her.
Well, the truth of it was that she left, but he could’ve chosen to come along. She smiled at her shameless self. The major saw to his own plans. Why should he chase after her?
Except that man on the dock in New Orleans looked so much like….
No! Only foolishness on her part to even think so. It was just a man who favored him.
The hired coach pulled up to her hotel, then the driver helped her out. The sky over the bustling city looked the same as it did over Texas.
Fluffy white clouds floated by, pulling large patches of shade over the white beach. The sand looked more like tons of sugar. Across the street on the city side, standing in the shadows, a man seemed to be staring.
A quick look over her shoulder for someone else he might be watching proved futile. A chill raced from her heart to her fingertips. So far from home and anyone who even knew her there. She never considered that would bother her so much. Her hand went into her handbag.
The Derringer’s cold steel brought a bit of comfort—enough that her heart slowed its pounding.
The driver set her last bag beside her then held his hand out.
“Oh, yes.” Releasing the pistol, she fished out several coins.
Another glance across the street set her more at ease. The shadow man had vanished. Probably only her imagination. Daddy’s fretting over her traveling alone, that’s what made her over-cautious.
There was not one reason in the world to be concerned.
Two bellmen lifted her luggage and another extended his arm, palm up as to welcome her into the grand lobby. The two half-grown boys heaved her bags inside. The area’s openness surprised her.
The huge doors were flung back and left wide open…on both sides of the huge room. Full-grown palm trees brought the outdoors right inside. And bright, colorful birds flew around freely. It took her breath.
The vista of the ocean, with its snow-white borders, stretched across the entire width of the back wall of glass, its doors also left wide open. The salty breeze proved quite refreshing.
One last look across the street showed nothing. Oh well, if someone followed her, she’d deal with him whenever, but until, she refused to ruin her time in that beautiful place worrying over a boogie man.
Mama always said that worry negated every promise of God. And she was always in His hands. She wasn’t alone.
He was right there with her in Panama City just as He was in Clarksville. He would never leave her or forsake her. So why worry?
A long, hot bath and a quiet evening would be perfect to relax her completely.
Maybe she’d even go for a walk on the beach later.
During the five days it took to cross the Gulf of Mexico, for four hours out of every twelve, Ford tossed coal into the boiler’s belly, returned to the storage bin, waited his turn, filled his shovel again, and willed his feet to carry him back to the waiting fire.
Seconds after entering the room, sweat ran down his face, soaked his shirt, and stained his trousers.
Besides that, the room’s heat proved almost unbearable. The stench permeated every thread, and after every shift, his face and nostrils were blackened with soot.
Still, a deal was a deal, and he’d never welched on one in the whole of his life. The aching muscles across his back chided him for agreeing to the torture at all.
Always another shovelful to toss, then another. He kept at it until finally, mercifully, his shift—the longest four hours he ever endured—ended.
At least he hadn’t gotten seasick or passed out like some of the other poor souls who’d signed on. Rumor told of one malingerer who got himself thrown overboard. Probably just that…a rumor.
Perhaps even planted by the boiler master, but who knew? On the high seas, the captain was king. He could order whatever he pleased.
The day that man shouted the ‘drop anchor’ command…with Central America in sight…was a great day indeed. Ford had endured. But if he had to shovel coal to get back to Texas, he’d be perfectly happy to stay in California.
After the paying passengers, he and the rest of the crew sailed ashore. Colon, Panama. He’d never been in another country, never planned to be either. Yet there he stood.
The minute his feet stood on dry boards, he started asking questions to find out how many days prior the Orizaba had arrived. Though glad he’d caught up a day, he still trailed Rebecca by three.
&n
bsp; Next, at the railroad station’s ticket office, he plunked down his hard earned dollars. Going the forty-seven miles from there to Panama City cost over twice as much as getting all the way from New Orleans to the port city.
But then building a roadbed in the tropics couldn’t be cheap or easy.
According to the clerk, the train wouldn’t pull out for another hour or better. Ford’s last meal on the steamer long since disappeared. Of course, the plate of frijoles and flour tortillas cost twice a bowl of Cajun beans and rice in New Orleans…forget the cornbread he loved.
However, fasting all the way to San Francisco didn’t seem practical.
If that’s what he needed to do, so be it.
Seeing his love again would make paying any price cheap.
The train pulled out right on time. Why not? At the princely prices they charged, heaven forbid they should miss a trip.
Panama City surprised him. Elegant old buildings guarded by palm trees swaying in a salty breeze. It begged to be painted. Not a bad idea.
He strolled from the train station to the docks and located the Pacific Mail Steamship Company’s office. It fronted a long, albeit drab, row of good-sized warehouses.
The place bustled with activity, but no signs in the window offered employment.
He walked into the small office. The clerk sitting a rolltop desk raised his head, blinked several times like he’d been napping, then smiled a toothy grin. “Afternoon.”
“When’s the next ship to San Francisco?”
“The Saint Louis sailed two days ago. She’ll not be back for better than a month. Now the Sacramento is overdue, and the Golden Age may still be a week out. Who knows for sure?” The man shrugged. “Check back in a few days.”
“You keep a passenger list for the Saint Louis?”
The man perked up like he smelled an opportunity to get his palm greased. “Who you looking for?”
“Rebecca Rusk.”
“Don’t ring no bells.”
“My age. Beautiful. Blond curly hair that cascades over her shoulders. And she’d be traveling first class.”
