Guardian

by Joe Haldeman

  There were dozens of trains bound from New York to Chicago. It was just possible he could have an agent watching for us there. In fact, we would probably be well advised not to go through Chicago at all, since if he guessed we were westward bound, he would have that station watched.

  I told Daniel we might as well see a lot of the country, and charted a jagged path that put us on the four o’clock to Pittsburgh, and from there one of the trains to Buffalo. Down to Cleveland the next morning, then back up to Gary, Indiana, and over to Davenport, Iowa, where we would pick up the Rock Island Line and get off at Kansas City. From there, we could take a stagecoach to Dodge, if there was no local passenger line. (I knew that Dodge owed its existence to a freight line, laid down originally for the buffalo hunters, and then used for cattle.)

  Daniel drew a careful map, with times. I talked about how fun it would be to see Niagara Falls and the Mississippi, which confused him for a moment. “But aren’t we just trying to keep Father from catching us?” I told him we could do two things at once, and resolved to be as frank with him as possible.

  That frankness never extended to the incident that had precipitated our flight. We never referred to it directly for many years. In fact, my only diary reference about it, my final diary entry of many thousand in Philadelphia, was Edward has done the unspeakable. We leave tomorrow, come what may. God protect us.

  Jersey City Station was crowded and noisy but agreeably free of smoke and cinders. They “coasted” the trains in, without power, which was quiet and eerie until the shriek of brakes.

  I booked us on the four o’clock, declining to have our luggage checked through, in case we had to change plans quickly. Then I sat with our things and sent Daniel off with a dollar to buy some fruit and something to read. He came back with two apples and a number of magazines of a type Edward did not allow in the house—story papers like Saturday Night and The Argosy. (I used to get that one almost every week when Daniel was younger, back when it was The Golden Argosy. But now it was hardly a magazine for children.) He also had a couple of dime novels that I supposed qualified as “research” for our ultimate destination.

  (I had recently read about Dodge City and knew that it was no longer so wild and wooly as it had been in the seventies—“the Beautiful Bibulous Babylon of the Frontier”—because the cattle drives that had provided the town with all those rowdy cowboys were long a thing of the past. I was less worried about gunfights than about finding a job.)

  I had picked a corner to wait in where I would be inconspicuous, partially hidden by a row of potted ferns, but where I could command a view of most of the waiting room. It was just possible that Edward might have taken the next train, or contacted some agent, though I wasn’t sure what to look for in that case. Some sort of Pinkerton man, scrutinizing faces.

  We got aboard the train without incident, though the porter was grouchy about accommodating our “rather large” trunks to the “rather small” Pullman room. In fact it was no real problem—Daniel was so excited about his magazines that he could have read them standing up, so having to sit on the trunk was no burden.

  I got little enough reading done myself, since Daniel had to read out to me every stirring passage about Dodge City. I could have listened to him babbling on about anything, though, forever, so full of pity and love I was and so relieved at our escape.

  We had an adequate meal of roast chicken in the dining car, seated with two traveling men who extolled the virtues of their lines of shoes and bicycles. The bicycle man was actually interesting, and on my request repaired back to his seat to fetch me a brochure.

  Daniel had grown through two bicycles in Philadelphia, the large-wheeled penny-farthings that nowadays you only see in museums and parades. The “safety” bicycles this man was promoting looked much more practical, and he assured us they were much simpler to ride—the difference between riding a horse and being drawn in a carriage.

  He was a funny man; he blushed and turned his eyes away from me when he spoke—and thought—about my riding a horse or bicycle. I suppose I might have blushed in return, though I had never as an adult straddled a horse. I rode, but had an old-fashioned sidesaddle. I supposed that would be mirth-provoking in Kansas.

  Both of us were intrigued by the pictures, and I resolved to order one once I was established in a job, providing that whatever passed for roads in Dodge City would accommodate such a machine. The salesman claimed he could deliver a bicycle anywhere in the country—so long as it had a rail stop—within two weeks. It was exciting, mainly for Daniel, but I also liked the idea of being independent of horses and carriages. Some of the pictures in the brochure showed women gaily riding along, though I wasn’t sure how one could mount the machine without exposing a certain amount of ankle, or worse.

  I slept that night better than I had in years, free of Edward and rocked by the motion of the train.

  Daniel hardly slept at all, thanks to the small electric light over his bunk. It was probably as much the novelty of being allowed to stay up and read as it was the drama of the stories he was reading.

  The train stopped several times during the night, but I didn’t wake until dawn, when we began laboring up the final hills through the “Black Country,” around Latrobe, to Pittsburgh. I suppose Daniel fell asleep about then; he was too groggy to go to the dining car for breakfast. I brought him back toast and tea, but they went to waste.

  The blast furnaces were darkening the sky again, after the strikes and depression, and Pittsburgh seemed both modern and monstrous. I was glad we were only to spend a few hours there. The porter helped us unload and I left Daniel to “guard” our trunks, by sleeping on them. In the coffee shop I wrote a short letter to Edward, and copied it into my diary:

  June 25th, 1894

  Edward:

  God may one day forgive you for what you did to our son, but I never will. I have taken him away from your vileness forever.

  Don’t try to contact us or find us. I will take you straight to court and expose you for the monster you are. It is only for Daniel’s sake that I didn’t do so in the process of divorce.

  If Daniel wants to go to you after he is an adult, I cannot stop him. Until then, I will keep him safe from you, and pray that God remove you from this Earth.

  It was difficult for me to write the word divorce, and I was not sure that I was sincere in the threat. It seems odd to me now, and weak, but to me the marriage vow was absolute, a life sentence.

  I was not young then, but naive, in spite of education. It’s quite clear to me now that instead of running off to Kansas, I should have walked into the law offices of the proper Victorian gentlemen who conducted Edward’s affairs, told them what had happened, and found out what the price would be for divorce in return for silence. I suspect Daniel and I would have had our independence easily, relocating with a comfortable sum or income. Instead of the strange journey.

  Perhaps God ordains these things. The world would be much different now, if I had acted more rationally. Millions of people now living would be dead, or unborn.

  We are “derailed.”

  We hadn’t planned to spend more than a day in Buffalo, but the larger world of politics and labor stepped in.

  I had not been following the news. Our Pullman cars were the invention and property of George Pullman, who had built a city outside Chicago, a “company town,” named after himself. He had reduced wages over the winter, to save jobs, supposedly—but he didn’t reduce the rent his workers had to pay in the town of Pullman. There was some rabble-rousing, and ultimately almost all of the workers joined the ARU, American Railway Union, and went on strike.

  When we got to Buffalo on June 26th, the ticket-master wasn’t able to give me a ticket on to Cincinnati, because there was a strike against any line handling Pullman equipment.

  The newspaper only had a small story about it, crowded out by the shocking news from France: President Carnot was assassinated, stabbed to death in his own carriage by an Italian anarchist. Th
ere was also a story about a terrible tornado in Kansas, which made me apprehensive but filled Daniel with perverse glee.

  There was no telling how long the strike would go on. I investigated two alternatives: proceeding west via Canadian rails (the Grand Trunk Railway was slow but not on strike) or taking a steamboat up the Great Lakes. We decided on the latter course, although it did mean waiting for a couple of days, with the sudden demand on the steamship line by businessmen as well as tourists.

  It occurred to me also that a customs declaration, upon entering Canada and returning, could give Edward too much information about our whereabouts. My letter might not frighten him, but rather spur him to action.

  We took advantage of the delay and spent a day touring Niagara Falls, beautiful but, for me, terrifying. At Daniel’s insistence I had agreed to visit the Cave of the Winds, which turned out to be a little too exciting. Baedeker’s says “only those of strong nerves should attempt the trip through the Cave of the Winds, which, however, is said to be safe and is often made by ladies.” There were no other ladies in our group; I had to hold the hand of a gentleman stranger, as well as my son’s, as we sidled along a narrow path with our noses against the rock cliff and the unending explosion of the huge cascade at our backs.

  Other than that experience, the falls lived up to their reputation as one of God’s great wonders, although the constant importunings of merchants were annoying, and in context seemed almost sacrilegious. In the deafening roar at the base of the falls, people would tug on your sleeve and shout, trying to sell you a postal card or souvenir fan.

  In Buffalo, we stayed at the Niagara Hotel, a sumptuous place that cost five dollars a night. (To put that into modern perspective, my notes show that the steamboat ride all the way to Chicago was only twenty dollars, including berth and all meals for almost a week.)

  I enjoyed touring the city by electric tramway, though Daniel was disgusted by the lack of excitement—we should have done Buffalo the first day and Niagara the second. He was impressed by a mile-long block of coal elevators twenty stories tall, seeing little service due to the strike. I most remember the public library, surprisingly large and dignified, with a good art collection and a room of literary curiosities, including Edgar Allan Poe’s watch, which impressed me because of “The Tell-Tale Heart.”

  The steamboat left about sundown, and although it proved reasonably comfortable except for the noise and occasional smoke on deck, it was grindingly slow and tedious compared to rail travel. Daniel taught me how to play cribbage, and we traded vast sums in ersatz IOU’s.

  The parlor aboard the boat had an ample collection of railway schedules, though of course there was no sure way of knowing which ones were closed down by the strike. Daniel and I sorted through the collection, writing down possible routes that did not advertise Pullman service, and presumably would not be affected by the strike.

  Studying the large map on the wall, though, I had a sudden inspiration. For an extra five dollars, we could continue via steamer avoiding Chicago altogether to Duluth, and from there entrain to St. Paul, Minnesota (the Minneapolis–St. Paul & Duluth Railroad didn’t have Pullmans, being only 151 miles in extent). St. Paul was the northern terminus of the Diamond Jo Line of steamers, which plied the Mississippi.

  We were both excited by the idea of going down Mark Twain’s river! I had read Huckleberry Finn to Daniel as a bedtime story when he was seven and eight, and had myself read the original Life on the Mississippi—though if I’d seen the later, sadder version of that book, I might have been less enthusiastic.

  (It occurs to me that I should remind modern readers that in 1894 the age of the steamboat was well past. The train from New York to Chicago cost less and only took a day. Old people took steamships out of nostalgia—or fear of “railroad spine”—but to most, it was an eccentric mode of transportation that one might use for a day or so of sightseeing, or as a change of pace from a long railroad journey.)

  Our cabin was small but pleasant, and we slept well after a day of running around; I also felt a new sense of security for the time being—Edward might have people watching railroad stations, but there was no one on his side who could walk on water!

  I woke in time to see the sunrise over Erie’s picturesque harbor. After a hearty breakfast, we took the air in the ship’s bow as it moved swiftly along close to shore, dense woodlands going by, with many deer and birds ignoring us. We congratulated ourselves on our decision; it seemed a most agreeable way to travel. By Friday we would be singing a different tune.

  Cleveland looked serene and beautiful from the water. We docked at about four and were advised to go ashore for supper. With directions from the porter, we went a few blocks to the Stillman Hotel, where we had lake fish so delicate and superb I can still recall the flavor.

  City quickly gave way to forest as we plied on into the dark. We looked at the stars for a while—I reviewed the major constellations with Daniel, who had a talent for seeing fanciful shapes in the sky. I remember him insisting that Draco was President Cleveland riding a giraffe.

  The next day was a lazy one; I drew and painted while Daniel played with some boys his age. I smelled tobacco on his breath and chastised him for it—did he want his father’s cough?—which made him sulk, but he recovered as we moved up the Detroit River, and traffic became varied and interesting. We passed a long barge ferrying a locomotive with twenty-two cars.

  We slept through the loading and unloading at Detroit, but woke at Port Huron. Our boat passed over the new train tunnel connecting the United States and Canada, a prodigy of engineering—a cast-iron tube wider than a locomotive and more than a mile long. I was glad to be over it rather than in it.

  The gray sky darkened as we went slowly through a narrow strait, and when it opened out into Lake Huron, the rain and wind began. The steamboat charged on into the storm, slapping against waves with a slow rise and jarring fall, meanwhile rocking from side to side in the wind.

  Both of us were violently ill. Our belongings slid and crashed around the cabin. The porter came around to tell us not to light any lamps, and I asked him whether there was any relief for our seasickness. He directed me to the infirmary, where I had to wait in a miserable line to purchase a bottle of medicine, a solution of menthol and cocaine in alcohol.

  It worked a lot better for Daniel than for me. He was soon snoring in bed. The medicine did quiet my stomach, but seemed to excite my other sensibilities. I spent hours staring out at the roiling waves frozen in the flashbulb thrusts of lightning, gripped by an unnatural state between fear and wonder.

  The feeling of being transported to another plane was so extreme that it frightened me deeply, as if I were facing death—even though I was aware that it was the medicine affecting my brain, coupled with purely understandable fear of the storm and anxiety over Daniel’s safety and Edward’s malevolence. I felt profoundly forsaken by God, as I never had before in my life.

  In later years I could see a reason for this so necessary trial, and wonder at the ingenuity of Fate—God’s tool, or servant, or master—in providing an earthly foretaste of my unearthly destiny.

  The storm ebbed at about three in the morning, and I fell into an exhausted sleep. I woke at dawn to the hooting of an owl—my diary says “the moping owl does to the moon complain,” from a poem in Palgrave’s—and we were in the calm harbor of Detour, a small fishing and logging village.

  Daniel woke famished and he had a good breakfast (I managed a pot of tea and some dry crackers) while we steamed up a lovely river, the St. Mary’s. In a couple of hours we arrived at Sault-Ste.-Marie, where we were to transfer to the Chicago steamer.

  I was ready to spend a day on dry land, so we arranged for a stayover and moved our belongings into the Iroquois Hotel. Daniel was immediately seduced by a handbill advertising “Shoot the Rapids with an Indian Guide!” I enquired at the desk and the bell captain said it was thrilling but perfectly safe. At three dollars, it cost as much as our room, but I was in no mood to be p
arsimonious, or to seem overly protective. Daniel loved canoeing and was very good at it, so we took a landau up to the head of the Soo Rapids, where I left him in the care of a young Indian man, gruff but with a sparkle in his eye. The landau then took me down to the take-out point at the bottom of the rapids, where it would return in two hours. Those two hours would profoundly change our lives.

  Daniel was probably ecstatic to be away from Mother for a while, but I of course was apprehensive, not so much because he was hurtling down a foaming stream under the guidance of a savage stranger, as just for the simple fact of his being out of my sight for the first time since we had fled.

  Hunger distracted me; the smell of a wood fire and roasting fish. Indian men were standing in the water, scooping whitefish out of the stream with nets—I supposed the poor fish were dazed from threading their way through the rapids!—and women were cleaning the fish and pegging them to planks, to roast by the open fire.

  I bought a plate of fish and took it with a cup of cool water to a table shaded by an awning. There was a woman sitting there reading the Bible, making notes on the pages with a pencil. That made me uneasy; as a child, I was told that writing in a Bible was sacrilege, and although I had come to feel that that was misdirected piety, I had never gone so far as to write in a Bible myself.

  “Oh, the fish is ready!” she said, and put the book aside. She went to the fire and got a plate and returned, sampling it daintily as she walked.

  She sat across from me. “You’re not from around here.”

  I extended my hand. “Rosanne Libby” (the name I’d been using for travel) “Philadelphia, born in Georgia.” I didn’t try to hide my slight accent.