Angel Train

by Gilbert, Morris

  “Charity?”

  “Of course! Charity Morgan. How many girls are you courting?” Angus demanded. He had beetling eyebrows that overshadowed his penetrating eyes, and he studied his son carefully. He had planned to have a houseful of sons, but his marriage had produced only one child, and then his wife died. He had finally accepted the fact that he couldn’t find a woman he loved enough to live within the bonds of matrimony so he put his hopes into the one son. Now he said, “It’s time for you to marry, Charles. I need grandchildren.”

  Charles nearly said, You talk about me like I’m a stud good only for reproducing the Campbell name, but lack of practice at challenging his father forbid that. He shrugged slightly and said, “She’s a fine girl. I like her very much indeed.”

  Angus snorted. “Like her very much indeed! I hope you’re a little bit warmer than that when you talk to the girl.”

  Charles put his fork down and stared at his father. “Why are you so interested in her? You always wanted me to marry a woman from a good family.”

  “She is from a good family! Not a breath of scandal against any Morgans, and besides that, look at the woman. She’s got good strong hips and a good bosom. Why she’s made for bearing children! Fine-looking woman and has some life about her. The Morgans have that reputation. We need some life in the line, boy. Life, I tell you! She’s good stock. The whole family is smart, and they’re healthy.”

  Charles could not refrain from saying, “You make it sound like a breeding proposition as we do with horses or cattle.”

  “The principle is the same. If you want good livestock, breed properly. If you want a good family, you look at the woman and decide what she’ll bring to the line. The principle is the same,” he repeated. “Now, you ask that girl to marry you tonight, you hear me?”

  “Yes, Father, I hear you. It’ll be as you say.”

  * * *

  CHARLES ARRIVED IN HIS carriage behind a matched team of bays that were the envy of horsemen in the county. The carriage was a masterpiece of art too—new and built from the finest materials. Charity was waiting for him.

  “Do we have to make another visit?”

  “Yes, we have to go see the Widow Chambliss. She has four small children and no help.”

  “Very well,” Charles said with resignation. He helped her into the carriage, got in, and then, following her directions, drove to a small house on the outskirts of the village. The visit, he knew, would be like all the rest. There would be dirty, raggedly dressed children and a poor widow, and he would give money. He did not resent this, for he, indeed, found some pleasure in it, but after they left the house, charity talked about what a fine thing it was to be able to help people. Charles could not help remembering his father’s commandment, and instead of going right home, he turned the horses down a side road.

  “Where are you going, Charles? This isn’t the way home.”

  “I thought I’d go by the river road. It’s pretty this time of year.”

  It was the first time he had ever seemed to notice the world about him. One of the things Charity did not like about Charles was his lack of appreciation for the beautiful world of Pennsylvania. She said, “You like this season?”

  “Oh yes, but then I guess I like all seasons.”

  It was a milksop sort of reply, and Charity tried to keep the conversation going. Actually, they had little in common. His world was like a foreign country to Charity. She was used to the demanding work of taking care of a family. The church was a very living thing to her, but Charles’s religion seemed to be simply a matter of form, something he did, as he wore a certain suit or ate at a certain time.

  Finally, Charles pulled over beside the river, which was now free of ice and made pleasant, sibilant gurgling sounds. “I love the river,” Charity said. “If I were a man, I’d be a captain of a riverboat or maybe an oceangoing vessel. Wouldn’t you like that, Charles?”

  “I think it would be very uncomfortable.”

  Involuntarily, Charity shook her head. Was there nothing the man would grow enthusiastic over? She sat in silence, determined to let him choose the line of conversation and was shocked when he turned to her and said, “I would like it very much if you would marry me, Charity.”

  Charles made no attempt to kiss her or even to take her hand. It was the kind of offer a man might make if he were seeking a business partner. He had no passion and no excitement. Charity had suspected that, sooner or later, this moment would come, and she had prepared herself for it. She had to refuse him, but she had to do it kindly.

  “It’s honored I am that you would ask me to be your wife, but I’m not ready to marry, Charles.”

  Charles Campbell suffered a shock. He had loitered in his courtship because he had doubts about whether Charity would be a proper wife for him—which meant in his mind one that would satisfy his father. It never once occurred to him that she might refuse him. He was aware that many women had in subtle ways—and some not so subtle—offered themselves to him. For Charity to refuse him was almost beyond his comprehension, and he wondered if he had heard her correctly.

  “What do you mean you’re not ready to marry? What are you waiting for?”

  Charity hesitated. Perhaps a little of the truth would not hurt this young man who had so much—and yet so little. “Charles,” she said, “a woman should love the man she marries with all of her heart. Next to God he should be the biggest thing in her life, and the man should feel the same way about the woman. Man and wife, they become one flesh. I saw a good marriage between my father and my mother. They loved each other dearly, and I vowed I would never marry until I found a man I could feel as strongly about as my mother did about the man she married.” She continued to talk about what it was like to be in love.

  Finally, Charles, somewhat nettled by her refusal, said, “You’re romantic! You’re waiting for a man on a white horse to come into your life.”

  “Not so. I’m the most practical member of my family. I always have been, but there is a love that surpasses friendship. A wife should be the best friend her husband has and also his lover.”

  Charles blurted out, “Think what you’re doing, Charity. Hard times are coming. I’ve heard Father talking to other men of power and influence. They all know that there’s going to be a break in the economy. You have your family to think about.”

  “Charles, the Lord is my Provider. There’s a word in the Bible called Jehovah-jireh. It means ‘The Lord is my Provider.’”

  “Oh, that’s well enough that—”

  Charity looked him in the face and said plainly and with great force, “I would not marry a man I’m not willing to share a bed with for the next fifty years.”

  Charles swallowed hard and could not meet her eyes. She was outspoken, but this, at least, convinced him that she would be the most uncomfortable woman to be married to he could possibly meet.

  “Well, Father will be disappointed.”

  Charity smiled. She wanted to say something cutting, but she felt a great sorrow for this young man. She realized that Charles’s wife would have to fit into Angus Campbell’s scheme of marriage. He was a patriarch in the worst sense of the word.

  Finally, she said gently, “Well, don’t worry, Charles. I’m sure your father will survive the shock.”

  * * *

  THOSE AROUND THE SUPPER table were noisy, as usual, with Bronwen the loudest. She was telling about an adventure she had on the way home from the school. Evan was quieter than usual, and Charity knew she would have to hunt him up later and find out what was troubling him. Meredith was eating noisily and without a sign of the table manners Charity had tried to teach her. Her father, however, troubled Charity the most.

  “What’s troubling you, Pa?”

  “I’ve been troubled you didn’t marry young Charles.”

  “I’ve explained that to you.”

  “I still don’t understand it. He’s not a bad-looking fellow. He has no bad habits. He has the money to care for a wife. Tell
me again why you rejected him. I think you’ve gone loony, Daughter.”

  “Everyone thinks that,” Bronwen spoke up. “Everyone says you lost your mind, Charity. I think so too.”

  “You watch your mouth, girl!” Gwilym said sharply. He had refrained from criticizing Charity’s choice, but he would not permit any of the family to criticize her because of it. “It’s her life, and she’s the one who will have to live with the man she chooses.”

  “I didn’t like him anyway,” Meredith said. “I think it would be unseemly for her to marry him.”

  “Unseemly?” Gwilym couldn’t help but smile. “Where did you find that word?”

  “It’s in the dictionary, Pa. It means ‘not suitable’.”

  “I think this is a sprite or an elf we’re raising. She’s reading the dictionary. What a strange child you are, Meredith Morgan!”

  Evan had said practically nothing, but now he spoke up. “I have something to say, and it’s going to be difficult.” Instantly every eye was on Evan. Even Meredith had noticed that he’d been quieter than usual, but it was Charity who had the only clue. He talked more to her than he did to the others of the family, and she had a fear of what he was going to say next.

  Evan put both hands flat on the table and bowed his head for a moment. He was a thoughtful young man, kind, more withdrawn than Charity would have liked. “I’ve decided I’m going to leave here and go look for work someplace else.”

  “I wish you wouldn’t do that, Evan,” Charity said at once. “We need to stick together as a family.”

  “What would you do, boy, go to another mine?” Gwilym asked.

  “No!” The answer was sharp and staccato. “Never again will I go down beneath the earth to work! I’ll do anything but that.”

  It was an old argument, and Gwilym Morgan knew there was no use pursuing it further. “We need each other, Evan. You’re the oldest son. You’ll be the head of this family one day. You can’t abandon your family. It would be like losing an arm to you.”

  “I know it would, Pa, but we’re going to have to do something.”

  A gloom seemed to fall on the entire group; even Meredith, after looking at the faces, said nothing. One by one they left the table then, but somehow a page in the book had turned, and each knew a new chapter was beginning.

  * * *

  THREE DAYS AFTER EVAN’S announcement, Gwilym shared news too. He had taken his bath and said nothing, but finally, when all were gathered around the table and he had given thanks for the food, he said quietly, “It’s bad news I have, family. The mine is going to close.”

  “I knew it!” Evan exclaimed. His words came in a rush. “Everybody’s been saying it. What are we going to do now, Pa?”

  “We’re going to pray and ask God to give us guidance.”

  “Some aren’t waiting,” Charity said quietly. “The Grissoms, the Taylors, and the McDonalds—they’ve already left town.”

  “Our number grows smaller,” Gwilym said, “but the Lord will hold us together. We’ll call a meeting and come to a decision.” He looked down at his hands ground with the blackness of the coal that would not wash out. “We need each other. That’s what the church is.”

  Evan looked up quickly at Charity and shook his head. She knew what he was thinking, and she feared he was right.

  “Yes, we’ll have to seek God and find a way to keep the Pilgrim Way together,” she said.

  Chapter Three

  STOPPING FOR A MOMENT and bending over, Bronwen peered carefully at the small break in the earth. For a moment she stood perfectly still, her mind darting back and forth, wondering whether an animal had made it. She was keenly aware of the world she lived in—trees, grasses, reptiles, birds, and everything that occupied this particular part of Pennsylvania. She had filled the house with trophies she found, including a hornet’s nest that hung close to her bed. She was an inquisitive twelve-year-old with more than her share of imagination, and this quality troubled her father who valued practicality more than romantic notions.

  Straightening up, Bronwen continued her walk along the river. March was still cool, but the sun overhead was warm, and she stopped more than once simply to look up with her eyes closed and soak in the warm rays. Eventually, she saw a figure and ran forward to stop beside Evan sitting on the remains of a fallen tree and staring out over the river.

  “What are you doing, Evan?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Why don’t you come home with me? Charity has made some gingerbread.”

  Evan turned his eyes on her and shook his head. His mouth was turned downward in a frown. “No. I’m thinking. Now get away from here, or I’ll sling you in the river.”

  Well acquainted with her older brother and knowing he wouldn’t do such an act, Bronwen took a seat beside him and for a while chattered on without receiving an answer.

  Finally, he said impatiently, “Will you hush, girl? You’d talk the horns off a billy goat.”

  “Evan, do you think we’re going to starve?”

  “We might.”

  This was not the answer Bronwen wanted, and she argued, “No, we won’t! God won’t let us starve. Haven’t you ever read the Bible?”

  “Yes, I’ve read the Bible.” Evan rose and gave her a disgusted look. “Good-bye now.”

  “Where are you going?”

  “To the saloon—to get drunk.”

  Bronwen called out after him. “You’ll go to perdition if you do!”

  Evan glanced over his shoulder. “Perdition might be better than this place.”

  Bronwen shouted, “I’m going to tell Pa.” She waited for a reply but got none. Bronwen pursued her walk for a time and took a shortcut home. She was headed through a section where several of the poorer houses lay on the outskirts of town, and suddenly she saw two boys older than herself watching her. One of them was smoking a cigar.

  He called out to her, “Hey, Bronwen, come here.”

  “I won’t.” She knew both of the boys. The larger one was Druce Prosser, and the smaller one was Kian Madoc. Druce’s father was a notorious drunk and brawler, and now Druce stood in front of the girl, blocking her way.

  “Well, look at this, will you, Kian. We got a big mouthed girl here.”

  “You leave me alone, Druce Prosser!”

  “Why would I do that?” Prosser grinned. His teeth were bad, and there was a sly look in his eyes. He winked at his friend. “Kian, what do you say we show Bronwen something?”

  “I don’t want to see anything from you.”

  “Why, we’ll show you something you’ve never seen before.” Prosser grabbed her and grinned at her struggle. “You’re a young woman now. You better start learning how to treat your gentlemen friends.”

  “Let me go!”

  Both boys laughed, and Kian grabbed her other arm. “Come on in the shack. Ain’t nobody home. We could have a party,” Prosser said. He leaned over and whispered something in her ear, and Bronwen fought to get away, but they were too strong for her.

  “Let me go!” she screamed.

  “After we’ll show you something. Come on, girl—”

  Suddenly, a big man turned the corner. He reached out and cuffed Prosser on the ear, and the boy yelled and grabbed his ear. “You let me alone, Dai Bondo!”

  “Will you have another?” The speaker, Dai Bondo, was not a tall man, but the muscles of his chest and arms filled out his thin shirt. As most men in the neighborhood, he had the grime of coal dust ground into him, and his eyes had scar tissue around them. He was a bare-knuckle fighter, a fearful one, and now he slapped Kian Madoc in the chest, driving him backward. “You rats get out of here. Crawl into your holes,” he said.

  “My pa will kill you!” Prosser shouted, but he backed away.

  Dai laughed at the two and said, “Away from here, or I’ll break your noses.” He turned to Bronwen. “Come here now, girl.”

  Bronwen stuck her tongue out at the two boys and skipped along beside Bondo. “I’ll take you to your hou
se,” he said. “You might run into some more vermin like that.”

  “I wish you had knocked them both silly, Dai Bondo. They whispered dirty things in my ear.”

  “Did they now? I may have a talk with their fathers. Bad manners, they’re having.”

  As the two walked along, Bronwen talked as fast as possible, and finally they reached the house. She said, “Come inside. It’s some gingerbread, you’ll be having.”

  Dai grinned. “All right, girl. I think that sounds good.”

  As they stepped inside, Bronwen said, “You smell that? Charity makes the best gingerbread in town.”

  Gwilym Morgan appeared, and his eyes opened with surprise when he saw Dai Bondo.

  “Well, Dai,” he said, “what is it now?”

  “Pa,” Bronwen said, not giving the man a chance to speak, “Druce Prosser and Kian Madoc tried to take me into their old house, and Dai Bondo gave them a thumping!”

  Charity had come in from the kitchen, an apron around her waist. Her eyes glinted dangerously, as they did when she grew angry. “Did you give them a kick, Dai?”

  “No.”

  “I should have been there!”

  Dai Bondo grinned. “Well, you’ve given Charles Campbell a good kick, so I suppose you’d know how.”

  “Come on in. Have some gingerbread.”

  They all sat down except Charity who cut slices of gingerbread. As Bronwen related her adventure to Gwilym, she gave each a slice. “An extra large one for you, Dai.”

  Dai took a bite. “Wonderful! You ought to take some to Charles Campbell and soften the man up, don’t you see?” He took another bite of gingerbread and turned his head sideways, laughter in his eyes. “People are wondering why you won’t have him.”