The Union Belle

by Gilbert, Morris

  He felt hands on his wounded leg and opened his eyes. He tried to say something about Ray, but it was too much effort. The blackness of the tunnel seemed to open up, and he plunged into it.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  The Golden Spike

  The wound in Mark’s thigh was bad enough to keep him off his feet for two weeks. Doctor Sanders had strictly urged Dooley to keep him in bed for at least a week. “Hide his pants,” he had instructed with considerable irritation when he had discovered Mark struggling out of bed.

  Mark had complained, but the loss of blood had been serious. Sanders told him that if Dooley had been five minutes later with the tourniquet, he would have died, so he remained in bed, thinking as he hadn’t since he’d been in jail in Mexico.

  Lola had been there when he had come out of the black tunnel of unconsciousness, and he had tried to talk to her. She had placed her hand on his lips, saying, “Sleep. There’ll be lots of time for talk later.” Every time he woke up, she seemed to be there—or if not her, his mother. The second day he was alert enough to ask, “How’s Father?”

  Rebekah replied evenly, “Not good, Mark.”

  The news depressed him and he lay there silently, wrapped in gloomy thoughts. When Lola took Rebekah’s place, he watched her as she sat across from him, her head bent as she read from her Bible. He said finally, “Things come around again, don’t they?” When she looked at him with a question in her eyes, he said, “This reminds me of the time when I was sick in that shack in Texas. It seems as if you always end up nursing me, Lola.” He lay quietly, fatigue and pain keeping him still. “That seems like a million years ago—yet it’s clear in my mind. I can still remember every board in that shack. Funny how things stick with you.”

  She put her Bible aside and came to him. She pushed his unruly hair back from his brow, her cool hand resting lightly on him. She was a strong woman, filled with that inner quality that had always drawn him. Her eyes were calm, but there was a vulnerable softness to her lips that matched the gentle roundness of her cheeks. A tap at the door drew her attention. “Come in,” she invited, and Ray entered with Moira at his side.

  They came to stand beside his bed, and Ray asked, “How are you, Mark?”

  “Going to make it.” Mark noticed that there was something new in Hayden’s expression, and as he studied him, he decided it was pride, self-confidence. He said slowly, “Ray, I’ll never forget seeing you run into that tunnel. I’m not sure I could have done it.”

  Ray laughed shortly. “Yes, you could have. But look at this—” he took out his wallet and removed something from it, handing it to Mark. It was a piece of fuse, less than two inches long. “Just enough for me to get hold of,” Ray said. “It seemed like they’d planted it a thousand miles down into that tunnel, Mark, and when I pulled the fuse—” He tried to grin and failed. “I just sat down and cried! Couldn’t even walk I was so scared!”

  Mark studied the fuse, then handed it back with a grin. “You’ll never cut anything that fine again, Ray. You saved our bacon.”

  “I was the one who got us into trouble—” Hayden protested, but Moira interrupted.

  “We’ve agreed not to dwell on that, Ray.” She smiled up at him, and he shrugged, relieved. Moira turned her attention back to Mark, saying, “I hope you mend soon, Mark. You don’t look natural lying down.” She included Lola in her next words. “Ray and I will be going back to Boston soon. He’s going to help my father put his business back on its feet.”

  “I hope things go well for you both,” Lola said, and there was real warmth in her words and smile. “Will you stay on until the rails get to Ogden?”

  “Sure. Somebody has to do the work while Mark lies there soaking up all the attention,” Ray smiled. There was a new assurance in him, and after the pair left, Lola said, “I think they have a chance. He’s not the same man—and she’s changed a great deal.”

  “I guess finding out about Ray shook me up more than I’ve been in a long time,” Mark said thoughtfully. “Do you really think a man can change so much?”

  She nodded. “If he wants to badly enough. Now, you go to sleep.” She tucked the covers over him, and he dropped off at once.

  For five days he stayed in bed, then he bribed Dooley to bring him his pants. “Just want to try them on and see if I’m able to navigate,” he said.

  Dooley argued, but habit was too strong, and Mark dressed anyway, limping across the room while hanging on to Dooley’s shoulder. “Why, I’m able to split rails!” he said proudly, but when Dooley released him, he would have fallen if the smaller man had not grabbed him and guided him back to the bed.

  “Yep, I can see you’re ready to fight a bear and give him fust bite,” he said scornfully. “Now you git in that bed, Captain, and stay there!”

  And he did, for the rest of the day, but the next day he dressed again, and it was well he did. It was almost dusk when Lola came into the room, and he saw at once she was disturbed.

  “Is it Father?” he asked.

  “Yes. I’ve got the buggy downstairs. Can you walk if I help you?”

  “Let’s go.” He clung to her, navigating the stairs and struggling into the buggy, all the while racked by blinding flashes of pain. “I’m all right,” he said quickly, though his face was covered with perspiration, despite the cold. “Get going.”

  She didn’t speak on the way except to say, “He had a bad spell about an hour ago—very bad, Mark.”

  Getting out of the buggy, he slipped and grabbed wildly at her. She supported his weight, and when he was steady, she said, “I’ll help you up the steps.” The two of them managed the steps, then pushed the door open and went in. His mother was sitting beside Sky. She got up at once and came to him. “Be quick, son,” she said, and he sat down awkwardly in the chair beside his father’s bed.

  Sky’s eyes opened at the sound of Mark’s voice. A smile came to his pale lips, and he whispered, “Glad you came, son. I—wanted to see you before I go.”

  Mark took the hand Sky gave him. He said, “I want you to know that no man ever had a better father.”

  “That’s good . . . to hear,” Sky said. His breathing was so faint his chest scarcely moved. “You have been a good son . . . like your brothers. I have always been proud of you, my boy . . . always.”

  He lay there for a full five minutes, not stirring. Mark felt his mother at his side and took her hand. They sat there silently, waiting for the end. Sky’s chest suddenly heaved, and his eyes fluttered, then opened. “I’m not one . . . to force something on you, Mark . . .” he whispered. “You’ll understand me. You’re the only one of my children who hasn’t found God. But I’m asking Him . . . to find you, son.”

  Mark felt a deep sorrow as he thought of his life, then that of his parents. He made a decision as he watched his father fight for breath. It was the kind of decision he’d made often on the battlefield—sharp and clear and not to be questioned or doubted. He said slowly, “Father, I’ve watched you and Mother serve God. Everybody I love and admire—they all believe in God.” He lifted his eyes and found Lola’s gaze on him, tears in her eyes.

  Mark took a deep breath and said, “I will serve God—from this time on, Father. Will you believe that?”

  Sky’s eyes opened wide and his smile came, freely and without pain. “Yes! And will you pray with me right now?” He saw Mark’s nod and began praying, the way Mark had heard him pray a thousand times—with a calm assurance that God stood right beside him. “Lord,” he whispered, “I feel so close to you! Before I leave, let me see my son enter into your kingdom. . . .”

  He prayed for a few minutes, and as he did, Mark Winslow opened his heart to God. First he prayed silently, then he cried out, “Oh, God, in the name of Jesus Christ, forgive my sins and make me clean!”

  He felt his mother’s arms encircle his neck, her tears warm his face—and then he experienced a surge of joy that was like nothing he’d ever known. He opened his eyes to find his father smiling at him.
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  “Thank God!” Sky whispered. “Rebekah . . . they’re all home!” he said, and he reached out his hand for her. “All the children . . . they’re all home! Thank you, God. . . . !”

  Mark stood up, and his mother knelt to hold the dying man in her arms. Mark hobbled away, unwilling to intrude on their last earthly moments together. He found that he could barely see for the tears that filled his eyes. “Lola?” he whispered, reaching out for her.

  “I’m here, Mark.” She stepped into his arms, and they stood there, clinging to each other. “I’ll always be here, my dearest,” she whispered.

  They held each other silently as the moments passed over them. Then Rebekah was there, her head high, victory mingled with tears in her eyes.

  “He’s gone to be with the Lord, children. He’s gone home.”

  ****

  An American flag snapped briskly in the biting wind. The setting was sharp and desolate. Southward behind Promontory, the land rose abruptly in a long ridge clad sparsely with scrub cedar, blocking a view of the Great Salt Lake. Two engines faced each other. The straight-stacked Rogers of the Union confronted the bell-shaped funnel of the Central’s Jupiter. A select group of track layers had placed a last pair of rails in position, and across this narrow space the two engines were poised. Fifteen hundred spectators crowded the scene, and Mark put his arm around Lola to protect her from the crush of Irishmen, Chinese, Mexicans and tourists. Leland Stanford awkwardly poised a sledge over the last spike of the transcontinental railroad—a golden spike.

  Mark thought over the titanic struggle that had taken place during the winter storms, how the Union had laid tracks on snow when they could not lay them on the earth. He thought of Lowell Taylor, and Jeff Driver and many others who lay in graves along the right of way. Then Lola whispered, “Look, Mark! The last spike!”

  Grenville Dodge had finished his speech and stepped back. Leland Stanford took a deep breath, swung and missed!

  Mark felt an elbow push at him, and turned to see Dooley’s grin. He was standing there with Maureen, his bride of twenty-four hours, and he laughed, “Ain’t that jest like a politician? Can’t even drive a spike!”

  Mark grinned, then watched as Stanford tried again, managing this time to tap the spike. The Jupiter and the Rogers, jetting out steam, slowly moved forward till their pilots touched. Irishmen swarmed over the engines, champagne bottles breaking in foaming streams over the engines.

  As the cheers rang out, Mark drew Lola out of the press and led her to a small hill overlooking the scene.

  “Well, that’s that,” Mark said. “There’s never been anything in this country like it—and the country will never be the same again.”

  Lola asked, “Are you sad, Mark?”

  “Only over the fine friends we’ll not be seeing.”

  She moved closer and said, “We won’t forget—but we have each other now. Like your parents did.”

  He embraced her, ignoring the whistles and yelps that went up.

  “Yes! As long as we’ve got each other and the Good Lord, we’re fine.”

  She returned his kiss, and they moved away from the hill. The bells and whistles of the engines followed them as they went, but they were thinking only of each other, and not a golden spike.

  GILBERT MORRIS spent ten years as a pastor before becoming Professor of English at Ouachita Baptist University in Arkansas and earning a Ph.D. at the University of Arkansas. A prolific writer, he has had over 25 scholarly articles and 200 poems published in various periodicals and over the past years has had more than 180 novels published. His family includes three grown children, and he and his wife live in Gulf Shores, Alabama.