by Judith Pella
“As a father myself, I suppose I can understand,” Malcolm admitted. “But can it lead to anything but heartache for her? And what if it actually did her harm?”
Joseph had always thought the notion ridiculous that an education beyond finishing school might be responsible for insanity in women. Yet it was a commonly held belief. Often higher education for women was not only frowned upon but forbidden as well.
“I would sooner cut off my right arm than see my daughter hurt,” Joseph said hastily. “However, until I am convinced it truly would be harmful, I want to see this through.”
“I am a forward-thinking enough man not to stand in your way.”
“Then you will keep it in mind, Malcolm? And if you hear of anyone—”
“You can count on me, my friend. And perhaps my cooperation in this matter will help you keep your mind on our business proposition.”
“It certainly couldn’t hurt,” chuckled Joseph.
Part II
Fall 1835
If railroads are not built,
how shall we get to heaven in season?
But if we stay at home and mind our business,
who will want railroads?
We do not ride on the railroad; it rides upon us.
—THOREAUM
14
The Hour of Reckoning
James left the house feeling that for once, in a very long while, he had managed to make his parents happy. He had agreed during breakfast that courtship with Virginia Adams was not at all disagreeable to him, and neither did it seem to be objectionable to her. He further informed them that Saturday afternoon he would be escorting the lovely Miss Adams to the birthday party celebration of her dearest friend, Kate Milford, and that there was some talk of a harvest party to be held by the church for the young people. James was pledged to accompany Miss Adams to that affair as well, should it actually develop into more than talk.
With his mother’s approving smile and his father’s heartfelt “Praise be,” James left for the rail yards. With any luck at all, Phineas Davis would already be there with his Baltimore entourage. They were testing a new engine today, something Davis had posted him on nearly two weeks ago. It was hard to believe a month had gone by since the Washington Branch had been opened to the public.
Whistling to himself and feeling rather happy to be alive, James enjoyed the colorful autumn day. Indian summer, he thought, and lifted his face to catch the waning warmth. Soon rain and snow would fly, and the streets would turn to complete muck, but for now, Washington City was actually a lovely sight.
His objective was the depot, which was housed in a three-story brick building just west of the Capitol, at the intersection of Pennsylvania Avenue and Second Street. The ticket office and a small car house were located here as well, and additional acreage had been purchased to expand the rail yards and build an engine house.
Narrowly missing an oncoming freight wagon and two careening carriages, James thought perhaps he should have taken a mount to the station. Washington streets were not safe for pedestrian traffic. The city’s geometrical streets had been laid out by L’Enfant in the fashion of spokes to a wheel. This was to provide better defense to the city, yet it had mattered little to the British when they’d advanced and burned much of Washington, including a portion of the presidential home, during the War of 1812.
Still, the nation’s capital had risen like a phoenix out of the ashes and been rebuilt. Even the presidential house had been reconstructed and whitewashed, giving it the commonly used title of White House. Approaching this area, James marveled at the paved section of Pennsylvania Avenue that served as entryway to the White House grounds. This forty-five-foot-wide strip had dressed up the grounds considerably and led to landscaping, regrading of walkways, and construction of gardens. It showed a pride in the President’s home that James felt was long overdue. Now the stretch between the Capitol and White House was a more picturesque walk, even if the bustling of political affairs kept many from enjoying that view.
“James Baldwin!” a voice called out from nowhere. Glancing around for the source, James smiled broadly when he found Phineas Davis striding toward him.
“You’re just in time to ride back with us to Baltimore,” Davis said excitedly. “You’re going to be quite impressed with our speed. We coaxed her up to twenty miles per hour on the last run.”
“Impressive, to say the least,” James offered and clapped Davis on the back. “Congratulations.”
“We had a good team,” he said, falling in step with James. “No chance of cast iron where wrought iron should be. In fact, we’re trying to work toward using more steel. It’s expensive, though.”
“But if the steel lasts longer in the life of the engine, the cost would be offset in the long run.”
“That’s exactly what I’ve proposed. We’re still building them cheaper than the English and better suited for our needs.”
They were at the rail yard by now, and James was eager for a look at Davis’s latest design.
James waved a greeting to Eddie. The sooty-faced man hailed him exuberantly. “Ain’t she a beaut?” he beamed, motioning James to the locomotive.
“I heard she did twenty miles an hour. Not bad at all,” James replied. He considered the engine for a moment, noting the continued use of the vertical boilers. Many people faulted Davis’s little four-wheeled engines with their vertical boilers. The new rage in train engines was for larger horizontal boilers and multiple drive wheels.
“Everything I’ve read seems to indicate that the real source of power and speed will be in larger boilers,” James said. “But if the vertical ones were built taller, they’d never clear the tunnels and overhead bridges. Horizontal boilers seem to make a world of sense. They can be built to whatever length you choose, as well as widened somewhat. So why keep using this design?”
Davis was not offended by the question as some designers might have been, for he knew James’ query sprang from his eagerness to learn rather than criticism. “The horizontal boiler does indeed mean those things you suggest. But this design works best for our line, which is mostly crooked and winding. The longer the boiler and engine, the more likely it will derail. I do have several designs for horizontals—in fact we’re building a prototype—but we’re just not ready to use them on the B&O because of the risk.”
“Can’t the line be straightened?” James asked. “I read only yesterday in the American Railroad Journal that most railroads are choosing to make the switch. Surely the B&O doesn’t want to be left behind.” Davis frowned, and James, worried that he’d insulted his friend’s design, added, “But don’t get me wrong, this a great engine.”
“You haven’t told me anything the folks back at Mt. Clare haven’t. There are changes in the works. We’ve considered a short horizontal, but it’d mean losing out on speed and power. Most lines now boast a regular rate of fifteen miles per hour and the capability of hauling larger loads because of their more powerful engines. It really leaves the B&O no other choice. They’ll have to straighten the lines.”
“All of them?”
“Not so much on the Washington run, but west to Harper’s Ferry is nothing but twists and turns. They’ll have the trains spending more time in the ditch than on the rail if they don’t straighten them out.”
“Will they spend the money to do that?” James asked earnestly.
Davis shrugged. “Who knows? I’ve heard there are fund-raising campaigns already afoot. I know, too, there are sections of track in such bad shape they’ll have to be redone in order to put any style engine on them. They followed the river too closely, so the track curves and bends along every inch of the Patapsco and Monocacy Rivers.”
“You about ready, boss?” Eddie interrupted. “You’re loaded with coal and water and the steam’s up for the trip.”
“Come with us, James,” Phineas said. “In fact, ride up here with me,” he added, motioning to the tender car. “I want to watch them work her over.”
“I don’t know,” James said hesitantly. “My folks will be alarmed if I don’t turn up for supper.”
“We’ll send someone over to let them know you’ll be back late tonight. There’s a shipment of flour coming down and you can hitch a ride on it. Besides”—Davis smiled down from the iron step—“I want to discuss your employment.”
James brightened at this. “Employment? With you? With the B&O?”
Davis laughed and jumped onto the tender. “Yes to all three. Now, are you coming?”
“I’d be a fool not to,” James declared. “Eddie, can you get one of the boys to take word to my folks?”
“You bet. In fact, I’ll do it myself. I still remember the way after dragging your pathetic frame home last month.” The men laughed at the memory, and James bounded up the steps to join Phineas behind the engine. This was turning out to be the best day of his life.
James watched the hypnotic pumping of the drive rods. This design of Phineas Davis was referred to in the industry as a “grasshopper engine,” due to the way the drivers stuck up like the back legs of the insect.
“We’re going to push her for all she’s worth,” Davis yelled over the noise of the engine. The engineer nodded approvingly and passed the word to his fireman, who seemed not to have heard. The fireman mopped his brow and squared his shoulders. He’d get more of a workout than either of the other three men.
“You’ll never have another ride like this,” Phineas said in clear animated excitement.
He loves this engine, James thought, grinning at his friend. His own passion for the railroad was rapidly equaling that of Davis.
“Our biggest worry will be to stay out of the fireman’s way!” Phineas laughed at this as though it were some kind of private joke, and James pressed closer to the tender car railing.
They passed quickly from city to countryside and were well away from Washington in a matter of minutes. The ride continued through the noisy clatter of metal on metal, hissing steam spigots, and a belching smokestack. James watched the men at work while he leisurely leaned against the railing of the car. He could never imagine working at anything else. It felt so absolutely right—the wind in his face, the clatter, even the jaunty sound of the whistle. The idea of a stuffy office without the sting of coal smoke and axle grease in his nose was absolutely appalling to him. As if reading his mind, Davis turned to meet his gaze.
“So, you want to work for me?” he called out without warning.
James was quick to reply. “Most assuredly.”
“Wait!” Davis laughed. “You haven’t heard the terms. You don’t know what I’m offering you yet.”
“I don’t care!” James yelled. “The answer is yes!”
Davis was still laughing when there was the sound of a sharp thud. James heard it but had no time to puzzle over its cause, for in the next instant the car lurched. James jerked his head around to view the locomotive, which in that very moment seemed to leap from the track. It all happened too quickly for more response than a shocked gasp. As the mighty locomotive was colliding with the earth, it pulled the tender car with it. James merely gaped in stunned silence. Then he seemed to snap back to life and instinctively reached out to Phineas even as the world began to go topsy-turvy. He caught hold of his friend’s shirtsleeve, but before he could get a firm grip, Phineas was thrown forward into the engine.
James cried out, but he was too late. Phineas was tumbling headfirst into the careening engine, while another lurch sent James backward in the opposite direction. His body slammed into the railing with such force he was sure he must have bent the metal before plunging over the top of it.
The whole affair lasted only moments, though to James it seemed to go on and on. First, the sound of the engine groaning, hissing, and shuddering into silence. Then the look of shocked wonder on Phineas’s face as he must surely have realized his peril. Finally, the terror in James’ heart as he felt his own body hurled against the thick trunk of a towering oak. And then—silence.
It seemed as though the world fell silent at once. James thought for a moment he’d gone deaf it was so complete. A rhythmic beat was born out of the silence. Pulsating and growing louder, James reached his hands to his ears. It was a heartbeat. His heartbeat. At least he must still be alive. But for what seemed an eternity, all James could do was concentrate on breathing. In . . . out . . . in . . . out. Each pain-filled breath made him certain he’d sustained some broken ribs. But soon it wasn’t good enough to just lie there breathing. He had to do something. Struggling to move—in fact, willing his body to obey his mind—James tried to rise. But he collapsed into the dirt as pain shot through him. Lifting his head, he saw Phineas lying facedown not far from the derailed engine. He didn’t seem to be moving. James clawed at the dirt and tried once again to rise so he could get to Phineas and help him. But his pain was too great, and in despair James fell back once more.
All at once other sounds erupted, and James was nearly overwhelmed with the noise. Men yelling, nearly screaming, some shouting out orders and running pell-mell around him.
“Get that fire out!”
“Someone go get help!”
“The city is only a few miles back, I’ll go!”
“I thought I saw a farmhouse over there.”
“Where’s Davis?”
The confusion assailed James from every side, and superimposed over it all was an incessant moan permeating everything. It confused James, for he could not understand where it was coming from. Searching around him it appeared no one but Phineas and himself were injured, but Phineas still had not moved. Then James realized with a start that the cries were coming from his own mouth. With each move he tried to make, his body protested in the only way it could.
Sharp pain coursed down his right side. It began like red-hot fire, branding, mutilating, destroying. He strained against it, crying out. Biting his lip and tasting blood, James tried to crawl forward.
He screamed out and his head began to swim in darkness. “No!” He fought the blackness that tried to claim him. “Phineas!”
“Easy son,” a man in a black coat said, taking hold of James. “Just rest and we’ll tend to you.”
“No, take care of Phineas,” James moaned, trying in vain to motion toward his friend.
The man glanced up, then lowered his face in a grave expression. “He’s beyond caring for.”
“No! No!” James twisted violently. The last thing he saw before succumbing to the pain was one of the other men placing his frock coat over the head and shoulders of the silent man. Phineas Davis was dead.
15
York’s Return
October eased in with an early winter chill to the air, a somber reminder of the days to come. Almost gone was the fragrant aroma of summer flowers, although the haunting smells of honeysuckle and gardenia still lingered in the air. The fields, once richly alive with cotton and corn, now lay fallow. The plant stubble had been plowed under as if to hide the evidence of its earlier existence.
Oakbridge bustled with activities to ready the plantation for winter. A portion of the livestock was sold off in order to keep down the cost of providing winter feed. The slave quarters were spruced up and mended as needed, and great stacks of firewood and kindling mounted up outside the barn through the arduous labor of the slaves. Elsewhere, Margaret Adams had already taken an account of the soap, candles, and food items they’d managed to produce during spring and summer. The plantation was responsible for the lives of over one hundred people, including slaves, and the obligation was taken quite seriously.
Carolina, however, spent a great deal of time stretched out on her window seat, where she watched the sad transformation of autumn to winter. The trees soon would be all bare and everything brown and dying. The house seemed too empty and quiet lately. Penny and Georgia had gone off to school; Maine and York were packed off to universities that she could only dare to dream of. Mary was napping in the nursery. Virginia was the only company Carolina had during the long
hours of the grammar school. But she desired to converse only on the subject of James Baldwin, that “menace to womanhood,” as Carolina was wont to call him.
How unfair life is, Carolina sighed. If not for the conventions thrust upon me, I too might be off to a university.
Her mother had desired to send her to Miss Damper’s Finishing School. This fine institute, her mother had assured her, had done wonders to transform Virginia into quality wife material. But Carolina didn’t wish to become quality wife material. Marriage to any man was the furthest thing from her mind. It didn’t matter that many of her friends were engaged and that some were already married. It didn’t matter that her own mother had married at the age of sixteen. What mattered most to Carolina was found between the pages of books. Any book.
When I read, she thought, I am able to move beyond the four walls of my room. When I study some new subject, something that forces me to focus my attention and give my all, I can very nearly feel the blood course through my brain. When I touch the works of Shakespeare or Plutarch, I feel an understanding into the hearts and souls of mankind. How can I cast that aside in order to learn how to serve dainty teas and paint with watercolors?
There is a restlessness inside me, she thought, lifting the edge of the lacy curtain, that refuses to find peace.
Carolina stared out across the withered yard and sighed. What’s wrong with me? Why can’t I be content with what I’ve been blessed with? I’ve never been a greedy person or one to ask for more than what was offered, so why am I acting so contrary to the person I’ve always been before?
