by Ginny Dye
The man nodded. “We have plenty of room,” he replied. “The name is Andrew McCullough. My wife and I welcome you.”
Janie had been willing to continue working, but now that a reprieve was on the horizon, she realized just how exhausted she was. She looked up at the hill, wondering if she had the strength left to climb out of the ravine.
“Harold and I will help you,” Matthew said quietly. “Your day is over, my love.”
Janie collapsed into his arms with a smile. “That sounds nice,” she admitted.
As they climbed from the ravine, the snow that had threatened all day began to fall in huge swirling flakes.
Chapter Twelve
“You sure you want to come with me?” Harold asked. “I think you should stay here and get some sleep with Janie.”
“So do I,” Matthew admitted wearily, “but my editor will be less than pleased if he discovers I wasn’t hurt and still didn’t get a story from the first night.”
The McCullough’s farm was about half a mile out of town. They had been received into the cozy cottage with warm hospitality. Hot bowls of soup and thick pieces of bread slathered with butter were placed in front of them as soon as they arrived. Matthew and Harold inhaled three bowls, while Janie had fallen asleep after a few bites, her head sagging back against her chair. Matthew had carried her to bed before coming back out to talk to their hosts. When Andrew had revealed the dead were laid out in the building next to the train station, Matthew and Harold knew they had to go discover what they could. Bolstered by the soup and bread, they were now headed into town.
“Do you ever get tired of it?” Harold asked as they walked the snow-covered road.
Matthew didn’t pretend to not understand. “Constantly covering bad news and tragedies? All the time,” he responded.
“How do you do it?”
Matthew pondered the question. “I would like to tell you it gets easier, but it doesn’t. Sometimes I feel numb. Other times…”
“Other times?” Harold prompted when the silence stretched out.
Matthew shrugged. “Other times the pain is so bad I think it will rip me apart. The battlefields… The riots… the murders … It’s enough to make you want to give up on humanity.”
“And have you?” Harold questioned.
“No,” Matthew said quickly. He knew Harold was struggling and looking for answers. He hardly felt qualified to help, but he was the only one who was standing there. He pushed through his fatigue to figure out what to say. “There have certainly been times when I wished I could remain ignorant about what has happened. I see people around me who choose to remain unaware. I have to admit there are times those people seem happier than I am.”
“Sometimes I think they have it right,” Harold said brusquely.
“I think so, too,” Matthew agreed. “Until I really think about it. Once I get past the hurt and the pain, I realize I would rather know.”
“Why?” Harold asked.
“Because knowledge gives me the power to act,” Matthew said. “I hated being in the riots in Memphis and New Orleans, but I’m glad the articles I wrote helped change the civil rights issues in our country. I still have nightmares about the explosion of the Sultana on the Mississippi, but I’m glad I could expose the greed that made it happen. If there is enough exposure, things like the Sultana won’t happen again.” He paused for a long moment. “Knowledge is power. The pain of knowing is sometimes more than I can handle, but I think it is better than getting to the end of my life with the knowledge that my selfishness was part of the reason bad things continued to happen.”
Harold nodded his head thoughtfully, but Matthew could still see the rampage of emotions on his face. “What happened?” he asked. There was so much he didn’t know about his brother’s last ten years.
Harold stayed silent for long moments but finally looked into Matthew’s eyes. “I was married.”
Matthew stopped walking and faced Harold on the dark road, barely aware of the snowflakes swirling around them. “I didn’t know.”
“I figured I would tell you when we saw each other,” Harold replied. “My wife died of cholera two years ago.” He took a deep breath. “So did my two daughters.”
“What?” Matthew stepped forward and took Harold’s hand, reeling from what he had heard. “All of them were taken by cholera?” He wrapped his brother in a warm embrace. “I’m so sorry. So sorry.” Grief constricted his throat. He was sorry for his brother, and he was also sorry for all the lost years that meant he had never known his sister-in-law, or his nieces. “What were their names?”
“Beth was my wife. Martha Ann was four. Nancy was three.” Harold took a shaky breath. “Beth was pregnant with our third when she died. I’d only been back from the war a few months.”
Matthew knew there were no words for the kind of pain his brother was feeling, but he began to understand the depth of the changes in his life. “You realized everything you were working for didn’t really matter.”
Harold nodded. “I thought reporting the news would help me make a difference.”
The brothers stood silently while the thick snow mounded around their feet.
“I’m glad Janie didn’t die,” Harold said, staring off into the distance.
Matthew searched his heart to come up with something that would make sense to a man who had lost so much. He thought of all the people he had seen die. He thought of Robert, and then of Carrie. “I can only tell you what helps me,” he began. “I came to the point when I was finally able to accept that bad things were always going to happen. My being angry or depressed wasn’t going to change that reality.” He took a deep breath. “Once I realized anger or depression wasn’t an option I wanted to live with, I had to make conscious choices to feel differently about my experiences. The most important thing for me was to realize I had to take action to make things change.” His voice grew stronger as his emotions settled. “It makes me feel good to do those things, so I choose to put my focus there.”
“How do you do it?” Harold pressed. “What actions help you make sense of it?”
“Writing for the paper is one thing, but it isn’t enough, so I’m writing a book,” Matthew revealed. “It’s called Glimmers of Change. For the last year or so I have been interviewing people who are doing good things, or who have overcome terrible things. It’s given me hope for our country and for all humanity.”
“Do you have a publisher?” Harold asked.
“I do. I’m scheduled to be finished with the book this spring.”
“But you are still a reporter?”
Matthew shrugged. “I tell the stories I want to tell.”
“Or the ones that fall in your lap,” Harold replied ruefully.
Matthew wanted to learn more about Beth and his nieces, but he sensed now was not the time to press that issue. He decided to change the subject. “I have hopes this crash will be the tipping point for the railroad industry.”
“The tipping point?”
Matthew nodded. “The railroads have grown quickly since the war. More and more people of all types are riding them. Before the war, it was mostly men who rode the trains. You saw the train today—there were as many women and children as there were men. Railroad travel has gotten cheaper, so more people are able to use it, but,” he added, “it has not become safer. In fact, it has become more dangerous.” He was glad they were not close enough to the bridge to smell the lingering odor of death.
Harold nodded. “I wrote an article last month about the use of kerosene lamps and candles for lighting. I learned just how dangerous the stoves are. We saw that first-hand today,” he said bitterly. “There are unreliable signaling mechanisms, and the rails are flawed and unpredictable. The couplers are outdated on far too many trains. Every time you get on a train you are putting your life into someone else’s hands.”
“Hands that shouldn’t be responsible for them,” Matthew agreed. He felt a surge of guilt that he had allowed Janie to ride the tra
in at all. His decision had almost cost her life. “I’m going to do my best to make things change,” he vowed.
“By using your articles to reveal the truth.”
“Yes. If enough people are aware of the problem, and they demand change, the railroads will have no other choice. I’m going to make sure readers all over the country know how horrific this crash was. It must be the worst train wreck in the history of America. People are going to want details, and if people are too afraid to ride, the railroad’s profits will drop.”
“And money always speaks louder than anything,” Harold stated.
“Always. They will have to change.” Matthew nodded toward town. “We’ve got to keep walking if we’re going to get there.”
Harold fell in step with him. “Need any help with that book of yours?” he asked casually.
Matthew eyed him. “Are you offering?”
Harold nodded. “I think I would enjoy putting my focus on something other than pain and suffering for a while.” A vulnerable look flashed across his face. “I know I’m asking a lot. I haven’t exactly been a great brother, and—”
“Nothing would make me happier,” Matthew said.
Harold stopped again and swung to face him. “Really?”
Matthew nodded. “I’ve missed you. And besides, we would make a great team. The first book is close to being finished, but my publisher has already told me they want as many as I can write. Evidently, the people of America are starving for good news that will give them more than feelings of despair.” A smile formed on his lips as he thought of working with his twin. A few weeks ago he had believed Harold to be dead. Now they would be working together. The smile stretched into a grin. “We start tonight,” he added.
“Tonight,” Harold whispered. “Thank you. This is the first real feeling of hope I have had in a long time. I was still trying to make sense of the war when Beth and the girls died. Since then, it’s been impossible to make sense of anything.”
“You’re welcome,” Matthew replied. His thoughts were churning as he put words to them. “We are going to use the papers we write for to expose just how horrible this wreck was so that we force change. At the same time, we are going to interview the residents of Angola. I was watching the men down at the wreck. I’ve never seen such compassion and caring from total strangers. The scenes of train wrecks are notorious for crime, but I saw none of that. Nothing was stolen. Nothing was taken away as a souvenir to sell later. Those people, like the McCulloughs, simply wanted to help.”
“And America needs to know about these people,” Harold said eagerly.
“Just as much as they need to know about the wreck. Probably more.” Matthew slowed as they reached the edge of town where the train station perched next to the tracks. The smell of burned flesh and death once more filled the air. “But first we must do the part we will both hate.”
*****
Matthew was numb as he moved through the frigid station freight house. He had ceased to feel as soon as he had stepped through the doors and seen the rows of ravaged corpses laid out on the frozen ground.
“Dear God,” Harold ground out.
Matthew remained silent as he gazed upon the horrific scene. Some of the corpses could be recognized as people. Bodies were intact and still semi-clad in woolens and flannels. His eyes rested for a brief moment on faces he recognized from his walk through the rear train cars in search of interviews. It was almost impossible to comprehend the gaping hole these deaths would leave in families.
Finally, when he could no longer avoid it, his gaze turned to the other forms on the ground. If they had not been situated next to the other victims, it would have been almost impossible to identify them as humans. Blackened bodies were curled into a fetal position from the searing heat of the fire that had consumed them. Most of them were without arms or legs. Matthew wanted to turn away, he wanted to run from the building and never look back, but he forced himself to look. He forced himself to confront the horror so he could effectively report it, and so he could tell a story that would help force change in the railroad industry.
He forced himself to consider the last moments of these people’s lives—the terror they felt when they realized the flames were reaching their bodies; the pain when their clothes and skin ignited; the shrieks that would have come from their mouths as they screamed until the force of life that gave them the ability to scream departed.
When Matthew had absorbed all he could, he walked out of the freight building, turned into a darkened corner, and threw up everything he had eaten for dinner. He leaned against the wall and took in shallow gasps of the frozen air, ignoring the burning in his lungs.
Harold found him there minutes later.
The brothers exchanged a wordless look and then walked back down the road they had come up just thirty minutes earlier.
Matthew wanted nothing more than to climb into bed next to Janie. He grieved that Harold would not receive the same comfort.
*****
Janie was confused when she awoke late the next morning. She didn’t recognize the strange room, or the strange bed, or the strange voices she heard coming from the other side of the door. She lay quietly for several minutes before memories began to filter through the fog. As soon as they did, she wished with all her heart that she could make them stop. Sounds of shrieks, screams and cries filled her mind.
Bolting upward, Janie grabbed her pounding head as her legs swung over the side of the bed. She couldn’t stop the groan that escaped her lips.
The voices went silent and moments later the door opened, letting in a gush of warm air scented with the odor of biscuits and bacon.
“Janie!”
Janie looked up with gratitude when Matthew rushed to her side. “I didn’t dream it,” she whispered. “You are alive.”
Matthew lowered his head to capture her lips tenderly. “I am alive,” he assured her. He raised a finger to trail it down her face. “Your face has to hurt terribly.”
“My face?” Janie asked in puzzlement. She reached up a hand to touch it, wincing from the pain.
“You must have smashed it into something during the wreck,” Matthew said. “You have two black eyes, and your whole face is swollen.” His voice reflected his agony. “I can’t believe you spent hours caring for everyone last night.”
Janie vaguely remembered crashing into the seat when the train landed hard in the snow. “The others were hurt far more than I,” she murmured, warmed by the expression in her husband’s eyes. “I must look quite attractive with two black eyes.”
“You’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen,” Matthew responded.
“I’m glad you are biased,” Janie murmured softly. She looked up when a stout woman with curly brown hair and kind blue eyes appeared in the doorway. “You’re Hannah.”
“That I am,” the woman replied. “I’m surprised you remember anything from last night.”
Janie frowned. “I’m afraid I remember more than I wish I did.”
“It was a terrible night,” Hannah said sympathetically. “I’m thinking a hot bath will make you feel much better.”
Janie almost groaned from pure pleasure. She was filthy, and she ached all over. “A bath?”
Hannah smiled. “I have one almost ready for you in the other room. I suspected you would wake up soon. You’ve been out for twelve hours, but I figured your stomach would demand attention about now.”
Janie felt the hunger the minute Hannah mentioned it, but there were questions rampaging through her mind. “The patients? Has there been word?”
“Yes,” Hannah answered. “But I’ll not tell you a bit of it until you have had your bath and you are seated in front of hot food.”
Janie smiled through her pain. She could tell Hannah was not a woman to be trifled with. She and Annie had much in common. “Yes, ma’am,” she said meekly.
Hannah snorted as she put her fists on her hips, her eyes shining with admiration. “I heard what you did out there
last night, Mrs. Justin. I know you’re not the type of woman to order around, but someone has to take care of you, too.”
A young girl appeared at the door. “Momma, the bath is ready. I just poured the rest of the hot water in the tub.”
“Janie is ready, too,” Matthew replied. Without asking, he moved forward to scoop her into his arms.
Janie wanted to protest, but chose instead to snuggle into her husband’s chest. Perhaps she would feel like herself after a long hot bath had washed away the worst of the grime and memories.
*****
It was late afternoon before Andrew McCullough drove Janie and Matthew to the Southwick home that was now operating as a hospital. She had learned that most of the injured had been transferred by train to Buffalo hospitals early in the morning, but Emma, too injured to move, was still at the house.
Emma locked eyes on Matthew as soon as they walked into her room. “You’re the man who saved my Minnie,” she said weakly. “Thank you.”
“I hardly saved her,” Matthew protested. “I simply found her in the snow.”
“She would have died…” Emma’s voice trailed away weakly.
“Hush,” Janie said as she took her friend’s hand, but she knew Emma was right. Minnie would not have lived through the cold night if Matthew had not found her. She shuddered at the idea of the beautiful little girl freezing to death. “The important thing is that she is all right.”
Janie had pumped Dr. Curtiss for information and knew Emma had sustained serious internal injuries, but the doctor believed she would recover in time. Her brother-in-law, Alexander, had not been so fortunate. He had escaped the train and gone for help for his sister-in-law and niece. He reached a house and managed to gasp out the information before he collapsed in a heap, evidently dead before he reached the ground. Janie had realized, as Dr. Curtiss told the story, that it must have been Alexander who had shown her the way out of the train.
