by Nancy Moser
“I’m not settling. I’m working toward a goal.”
Raleigh rubbed his fingers together. “So am I. I’m aching for the dough. The greenbacks. The silver.” He slapped the pocket of his coat. “I can’t wait to be weighed down with the money.”
“Money to send home.”
It was Raleigh’s turn to stop. “Not all of it. Right off the top the railroad’s going to keep twenty dollars a month for room and board, so that’s already near seven days a month we’re working for free. A man deserves to keep a decent amount for all his trouble. Don’t he?”
Hudson felt bad for his little brother. He understood the attraction of being off on his own. When Hudson joined the Union Army with John and Ezra and they’d first marched off to battle, he’d felt puffed up inside, like he was finally a man. They were doing something noble and good by fighting for their country and the cause of freedom.
The lofty feeling only lasted until the first shots were fired and he actually saw a Confederate killed by his bullet, and then saw John killed, right there beside him. A few seconds was all it took. Their first battle had been John’s last. How unfair was that?
Hudson and Ezra had nearly given up and gone home, right then. If it hadn’t been for General Cain riding through the stunned and hurting ranks that evening, pausing to offer his special condolences for the loss of their brother . . . And so he and Ezra had managed to stay on and fight—for John’s sake. They didn’t want him to have died for nothing. And Maguires were not quitters.
Fighting never became second nature, though Hudson had become numb to the blood. He’d had to. A soldier couldn’t be heaving behind every bush. Dysentery caused enough problems.
Hudson was thankful the war was over so Raleigh would never have to see such violence, never smell death, never be scared into thinking that it would be better to die rather than to endure the constant fear.
A swat to Hudson’s hat brought him back to the present. “Ah, don’t worry about me,” Raleigh said. “I ain’t as dumb as I pretend to be. I know what’s what with saving a little money. As a spiker we’ll get three dollars a day—which is ninety dollars a month. Even after the room and board, we’ll have seventy.”
“Glad to know you can add.”
They weren’t alone in their trek to the work yard. Hundreds of men swarmed forward like ants converging on a crumb. The crumb was work. The crumb was money. The crumb was hope. Many were soldiers needing work after the war, but many were immigrants from the East—and even Europe beyond—lured by the promise of steady work, decent pay, and the adventure of experiencing the mythical “West.” There were even ex-slaves working right alongside the men who’d fought to keep them enslaved. An odd thing, all around.
Hudson wasn’t as starry-eyed as some. There was fighting ahead. He’d heard awful tales from both sides of the Indian issue. There’d been Indian raiding parties and scalpings of railroad men. There’d been the Sand Creek massacre, where soldiers killed 150 Indians, including women and children. And the retaliation of a thousand Indians killing whites, pulling down telegraph wires, and burning Julesburg, Colorado, to the ground.
There seemed to be a lot of wrong going on, and very little right.
That’s what lay to the west, along with the hopes and dreams of a better future. Raleigh might still see the horrors of a different kind of war.
Hudson nudged his brother to get to the front of the group. There wasn’t work enough for every man, at least not until they got underway laying track. Hundreds had been waiting in Omaha, waiting for the Missouri River to be free of ice so supplies could come across. But finally the ground was thawed and they could get laying. The land ahead of them was mapped out and grading was underway. They had deadlines to meet or the Union Pacific wouldn’t get paid.
And if they didn’t get paid, all these men wouldn’t get paid.
Hudson and Raleigh shouldered past the crowd and settled right in front of the foreman. Hudson knew Boss had seen how hard they worked, so he was hoping—
“You and you,” Boss said, pointing at Hudson and Raleigh, then a couple dozen others. “I want these bunk cars finished by the end of the day.”
The men who weren’t chosen grumbled, but Boss yelled after them. “There’s a new shipment of ties to be loaded into the Burnettizer.”
The men ran toward that work, yet the Burnettizer was a mystery to Hudson. Somehow putting soft cottonwood railroad ties into a long cylinder, then taking all the air out and putting some chemical in, made soft wood hard. Supposedly. Hudson couldn’t help but think somebody at the railroad had been sold a bill of goods.
It wasn’t his problem. Hudson had to assume that Dr. Durant and Mr. Reed and all the others who were in charge had the best interests of the project at heart.
Boss interrupted Hudson’s thoughts with his usual, “Get on it, men!”
Hudson was not surprised that the bunk cars were General Cain’s invention. The general had always put his men first.
Up until these cars were built, the workers who’d laid the first forty miles of track had been forced to bring their housing with them. They’d slept in tents or shanties and moved their shelter as the work progressed. It was not entirely efficient. But these bunk railcars would let the workers move with the work without having to set things up from scratch at every stop.
Hudson climbed on top of the first car, which was taller than a normal railcar. There were three rows of windows mirroring stacks of three bunks. Both ran the length of the car, which was eighty-five feet long. Hudson knew. He’d measured and cut the floor planks to fit. Today, they were installing skylights on the roof.
“Catch,” said a worker on the ground. He heaved a rope up to Hudson. At the ground end, the rope was tied to a large pane of glass. “Careful now. Pull ’er up.”
They installed the glass and continued the process many times across the top of the bunk cars. After repeatedly squatting down to nail the mullions in place, Hudson stood and arched his back.
Raleigh laughed at him, though he also stretched. “What is it Da always says?”
“That which does not kill us makes us strong.”
Raleigh pointed his hammer at him. “Yeah, that’s the one. I hate that saying.”
Maybe so. But it was true. And Hudson knew that this work was nothing compared to laying rails.
Chapter Three
The clock on the mantel was an instrument of torture.
Tick-tock. Tick-tock. And the occasional tock-tick.
Aunt’s snorting snore interrupted the incessant reminder that time was passing. Josephine’s youth was passing; her life was passing.
Mother seemed unaware as she read a book, her chin occasionally bobbing against her chest.
Was this it? Was this all there was? Spending day after day in a luxurious parlor that had been decorated for gaiety and society? It wasn’t fair that Josephine’s coming-out years had paralleled those of the war. What should have been the sunniest years of her life had been rained on with worry, and then drowned with mourning. Those years had slipped away, never to be recovered. The bloom of her youth had been left untended and was shriveling before her eyes.
This parlor, which should have held musical soirees, parties, and flirtatious conversation, had instead been used as a place for women to roll bandages and listen to abolitionist lectures.
And now that the war was ended? The country was trying to rebuild.
The rest of the country. The Cain residence had its foundation fully mired in the past. There would be no rebuilding here. That Josephine was barely twenty . . .
She glanced at the clock and saw it was past six. Papa should be home by now. Although he’d remained firm in his decision to bar her from traveling west with him, she was not about to surrender. He’d always—always—given in to her wishes before. That this particular request was more substantial than her previous desires (which admittedly had tended toward the frivolous) only meant that persistence was needed. Father would cave. Fami
ly history said so.
When she heard his voice outside and his footsteps upon the stoop, she rushed to greet him.
Dowd opened the door to Papa—and another man. He was shorter than Papa, with dark eyes. After removing his hat, he ran a hand through longish black hair, making it bow to his will.
Josephine kissed Papa’s cheek, then turned toward the man. “You’ve brought home a guest?”
“Indeed I have.” He motioned the man forward. “Josephine, I would like you to meet Mr. Lewis Simmons. Mr. Simmons, this is my dear daughter, Miss Josephine Cain.”
He offered her a neat bow, and she nodded.
“So nice to meet you, Miss Cain,” he said, putting his gloves into his hat and handing them to Dowd. “Your father has spoken of your beauty and gracious nature.”
“Oh, has he now?” she asked, giving Papa a look. For they both knew that “gracious” was not one of her attributes.
Papa ignored her and instructed Dowd to have another place set for dinner. By now, Mother and Aunt had awakened and joined them in the foyer. Josephine let the introductions recede into the background. Her eyes were glued on Lewis Simmons.
My, he was a handsome man. Perfect actually, with just the right length of nose, and square of chin. The only flaw seemed to be the hint of danger in the way he handled the moment, as if he had a winning hand but wasn’t about to show it. Yet.
But perhaps that wasn’t a flaw at all.
As Papa took Mother’s arm and led her in to dinner, Mr. Simmons offered his arm to Josephine. “Shall we, Miss Cain?”
Please help me say the right thing.
Lewis Simmons took a seat at the table next to Josephine Cain. He saw the tablecloth move above his lap, and realized it was his very own leg causing the movement. He slipped a hand atop his thigh and pressed it into submission.
He was so nervous he wasn’t sure if he could eat. An unexpected dinner invitation from General Reginald Cain, when Lewis had just promised himself that he had to meet the general’s daughter . . . He wasn’t used to having things go his way.
He’d been watching Miss Cain for months—not that she went out much. He’d wanted to meet her but wasn’t sure how to scale the tall wall of mourning that surrounded the Cain household. He’d heard from the Cains’ coachman that the general was coming home for a visit, so he’d planned on finding a reason to call. But today when he’d seen the general enter the offices of the Washington Chronicle, a better plan had hatched in his mind. Lewis had a valid excuse to also be in the building, as he was trying to sell some of his illustrations to the editor, so meeting the general there was a pleasant happenstance. And then, when the general had remembered a published sketch Lewis had drawn of President Lincoln . . .
That one sketch, plus a little charm, had led to this invitation to dinner, and now he was seated next to the general’s daughter. That one open door caused his mind to swim with possibilities. Lewis was nothing if not an opportunist, a trait that had saved his life more than once.
Now he was in. Now, his plan could proceed.
Winning the heart of Josephine Cain would not be a hardship, as she was a beauty, though the reddish tint to her blond hair was a color more unique than fashionable. He found her freckles pleasant—though he knew society looked upon them otherwise. He liked her voice too. It was strong yet feminine. He could already tell she was spirited, a girl who knew what she wanted and was used to getting it.
He could already tell she was her father’s prize.
Which made everything quite perfect.
Lewis saw the others put their napkins in their laps. Yes, yes. He remembered now. It had been a long time since he’d dined.
A footman ladled soup from a tureen on the sideboard. It smelled delicious, and his stomach calmed. The ladies were served first, then the men. It was cream-of-something. He didn’t much care. It was hot, and he knew it was only the first of many courses. He would not go to bed hungry tonight.
“I hope you like cream of asparagus, Mr. Simmons,” Mrs. Cain said.
“It is a favorite.”
He waited until she took the first spoonful, his mother’s teachings coming back to him.
“Tell us about your family, Mr. Simmons,” she said.
“My father was in transportation—steamships, to be exact. He worked with Cornelius Vanderbilt up in New York.”
“The Commodore?”
“You have heard of Mr. Vanderbilt?”
“Of course we have. Everyone has.” Mrs. Cain seemed properly impressed. “Your father’s name?”
Lewis hesitated for only a moment. “Thomas Simmons.”
“Thomas!” Mrs. Cain said. “That was our son’s name.”
“It’s a fine name,” he said with an inward smile.
Mrs. Cain touched a finger to her lips, thinking. “I believe we may have met your father when we were in New York before the war. Don’t you think so, Reginald?”
“It could very well be. The name Simmons sounds very familiar.”
Lewis suppressed another smile. This was going better than he could have hoped.
“Are you involved in shipping too?” Miss Cain asked.
“That would be my father’s wish, but he’s given me permission to pursue my dream.”
“Mr. Simmons is a wonderful artist,” the general explained.
Lewis was happy for the praise—and the designation. “Artist” sounded better than “illustrator” and far better than the truth.
Miss Cain’s interest must have been piqued. “What sort of artist?”
He hesitated, then risked saying, “A good one.”
They all laughed. An encouraging sign.
“I meant, what medium do you use?”
“A few. But I prefer pen and ink.”
The general added more explanation. “Mr. Simmons’s illustrations have been seen in many East Coast periodicals. Do you remember the drawing of Lincoln’s assassination in Ford’s Theatre that was in the papers?”
She looked to her plate. “I do not need a drawing to remember.”
Lewis set his hand upon the table between them. His voice was soft. “I was there too, Miss Cain.”
“You were?”
He pointed a finger to his temple. “The entire scene is pressed indelibly upon my memory.”
“And then upon paper,” the general said.
“But why would you immortalize such a horrible moment of our history?” Miss Cain asked.
“Josephine!” her mother said.
“No,” Lewis said, “’tis a fair question. As an artist, I feel a responsibility to capture historical moments for all time.” That I was working backstage as a stagehand need not be mentioned.
“But such a horrible moment—”
“Must be remembered. The turning points of a nation—good and bad—must not be forgotten.”
When no one spoke, he wondered if he’d been too bold. “I am sorry. I shouldn’t—”
“No,” Miss Cain interrupted. “You are right.”
“But on to happier thoughts,” the general said. “When I was at the newspaper office, the editor there, Mr. Wilson, offered me two extra tickets to the opera. The Marriage of Figaro is playing. Your favorite, Josephine.”
Lewis saw her blush, and with another glance at her father, he knew that now was the time to do what he was expected to do. “Your father has been kind enough . . . I would be very honored if you would accompany me, Miss Cain.”
Mrs. Cain interceded. “I hardly think the opera is appropriate while we are in mourning.”
“Most inappropriate,” the aunt said.
“And you two most certainly cannot go unaccompanied,” Mrs. Cain continued.
Lewis wasn’t pleased that the general had created this faux pas. “Of course. Forgive me for bringing up such a frivolous subject.”
“Opera is not frivolous at all,” the general said. “Such magnificence of sound from voice and orchestra is heaven-sent.” He looked at his wife. “And they will
not be without chaperone, my dear. Mr. Wilson’s brother and his wife have offered to meet them there. You remember Robert and Edith Wilson?”
The girl flashed her mother a pleading look, but Mrs. Cain shook her head vehemently. “No, Josephine. You may not attend.”
“But our year of full mourning is over.”
The older woman’s chin hardened. “Our mourning is never over.”
“Of course not, Lizzie,” the general said. “But I see nothing wrong with Josephine going to the opera.”
“Thomas always loved the opera,” Miss Cain said.
At the mention of this memory, tears formed in Mrs. Cain’s eyes. Her daughter pushed back from the table and rushed to her side, kneeling before her.
“I am sorry, Mother. I shouldn’t have said that and reminded you . . .”
Mrs. Cain retrieved a handkerchief from her sleeve and dabbed at her eyes. But then she nodded, and even smiled. “Thomas adored The Marriage of Figaro.”
Miss Cain nodded and touched her arm. “He especially loved the duet ‘Che soave zeffiretto.’”
“He said it sounded like two angels singing.”
Miss Cain leaned her head against her mother’s arm. “I remember sitting beside him at the opera and watching him as he listened to the duet. His eyes were always closed, his face tilted upward as if sensing that the majesty of the music came from God.”
Lewis looked to the general, wishing for help to make things right.
But then, Mrs. Cain touched her daughter’s cheek. “You may go to the opera, Josephine. Remember Thomas through the music.”
“I remember him with every breath I take.”
In that moment, Lewis could imagine how Mrs. Cain used to be before grieving had become her occupation. But then she looked away, and the mask of mourning dropped into place. “Well then,” she said, looking out over the table.
Miss Cain stood, but before she returned to her place, she kissed her mother’s cheek.
“Very good,” the general said. “To the opera you shall go.”
