Angel Train (3 page)

“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.

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 house,” 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.”

Charity was pouring tea for everyone. “I’d as soon be married to an old eel! They have more backbone than Charles Campbell.”

Dai drained half his tea, boiling hot as it was, and winked at Gwilym. “She’ll marry a man with backbone, Gwilym, and he’ll take a broomstick to her.”

Charity laughed. She liked Dai Bondo very much and was grateful to him for his help. “If you want more gingerbread and more tea, you’ll say no more about Mr. Charles Campbell.”

Dai nodded and continued to eat his cake. Finally, he said, “Gwilym, people are saying the Pilgrim Way will scatter like a bunch of scared crows.”

“No, that won’t happen!” Gwilym said firmly. “God put us together, and He’ll make a way for us to live.”

“If you’re having my opinion”—Dai shrugged his massive shoulders—“the whole town is going to dry up and blow away.”

Talk continued about the hard times and the possibility of the town ceasing to exist. “There’s no way for us to make a living here, Gwilym,” Dai said, and he shifted in his chair and put his big hands before him. They were scarred, and the knuckles were large and had been the quietus of many an opponent in the bare-knuckle fights. “This is going to be a ghost town in a few weeks. Seven families moved just this week.”

“What do you suggest, Dai,” Gwilym said, “that we quit and go away in all directions?”

“Let me show you something,” Charity said. Moving quickly to the table beside the window, she picked up a newspaper. It was folded, and she placed it before her father. “Look, Pa, I’ve been reading about Oregon.”

“Aye, I’ve heard about that,” Dai Bondo said. “What does it say?”

“What difference what it says! We can’t go to Oregon.”

“Why not, Pa?” Charity said. “There’s free land there; that paper says so!”

“Does it say it’s more than two thousand miles from here, and it’s a blinking wilderness?”

“That’s what I understand,” Dai said, giving Charity a sharp look. “The redskins are thick out there.”

“But there’s free land there. We could take up homesteads close to one another.” Charity spoke rapidly. She was excited at the news of the new country opening up on the West Coast. According to all reports, the land was fruitful and it was free. She turned her attention. “Dai, you’ve always talked about the mill your father owned for grinding corn. You could build one there and be a miller. No more grubbing in the mines.”

Dai blinked with surprise. He was not a man who thought a great deal and had little philosophy, but the miner’s life was a hard one, and the best memories of his life were those days when he was a small boy. He had worked with his father in the grinding mill. “It sounds like a bit of heaven, but how do we get there? There are no railroads to Oregon.”

“There are no roads either,” Gwilym said defiantly. “There’s no way.”

“But wagon trains go all the time. Read what the story says.”

“It’s foolish, Charity. Now say no more about it. It’s only a dream.”

“Well, Pa, it may be only a dream, but it’s more than we’ve got now!”

* * *

CHARITY WAS WALKING ALONG her favorite pathway. It was a half mile from the village and relatively unspoiled. She had seen deer in this place, a sight that had thrilled her, and now she kept her eyes open for such a sight.

The sun overhead was warm, and she stopped for a time and breathed in the freshness of the air. Winter was gone, and the warmth of summer lay ahead, a time she dearly loved.

Suddenly, a figure appeared at the end of a lane. The man looked familiar, wearing a black suit and a hat such as no one wore in her village. As she came closer, she was delighted to realize it was her Uncle Paul Bryce. She cried out, “Uncle Paul!” and started to run toward him, but as she got closer, something happened to the man. She saw his face, a face she loved, for Paul Bryce, a brother to her dead mother, was partial to her. He was the warden at a state penitentiary not twenty miles away from the village, and he often came, sometimes with his family, to visit the Morgans.

“Uncle Paul!” Charity cried out and then suddenly stopped for there was a serious look on her uncle’s face, and even as she watched, somehow he seemed to fade. Charity stood dead still and cried again, “Uncle Paul—Uncle Paul!” The figure before her motioned her, urging her to come to him but then seemed to turn into a mist and was gone.

“Uncle Paul, what’s wrong?”

Abruptly, the figure before her vanished, and Charity emerged from the vivid dream with a tiny cry. She sat up in the bed and stared into the gloom. The moon outside was throwing silver beams through the window, and she found herself trembling. The dream had been so real, and she went over it in her mind. She remembered how he had motioned toward her as if telling her to come with him.

Charity had no watch nor clock, but she could tell it was close to dawn. Knowing that sleep would not be possible, she got out of bed, dressed quickly, and left her room. She went into the kitchen, started the fire, and soon made herself a cup of tea. Others would be getting up soon, but she could not think of breakfast.

She had the Welsh feelings about dreams and visions. Her mother had been an imaginative woman believing greatly in dreams and their interpretations, but Charity had never experienced a thing like this. She thought about her Uncle Paul and how deeply he had loved her mother. The two had been very close. Since her death, Uncle Paul had visited often, bringing them gifts at Christmastime, and though Charity tried to shove the dream from her mind into the dark area of forgetfulness, she knew she would not be able for it was imprinted there as clearly as if it were painted on a canvas. She knew she would not speak of it to anyone, but she longed for her mother in a painful and poignant way.

* * *

CHARITY WALKED WITH MEREDITH and Bronwen toward the house that sat off the road. It was the house of Mr. Jonas Edwards, the schoolmaster in the village. Edwards had taught
Charity and Evan, and now he was in charge of the education of her two sisters. “You two behave yourselves.”

“I always behave myself,” Meredith said.

“No, you don’t,” Bronwen argued, giving her an impatient look. “In our last lesson you paid no attention. You were looking at some bugs crawling on the window.”

The door opened, and Jonas Edwards, a tall man with kindly features and a shock of salt-and-pepper hair, smiled. “Well, good morning. My scholars are here. How are you, Miss Charity?”

“I’m fine.”

“Come in. I’ll give you a report on these two, and a cup of tea, we’ll be having.”

Twenty minutes later Edwards sat with Charity in the kitchen, pouring her tea. He had set the two young scholars to work, and now he said genially, “I’ve got a good report on your sisters. They’re both bright girls. Meredith especially. I think she’s going to be a scholar of some kind.” He smiled. “And Bronwen . . . maybe a writer of romance.”

“A scholar would be better,” Charity smiled. She had always liked Mr. Edwards, and now she listened as he spoke of how well they were doing. Finally, the talk turned to the economic plight of the town. In answer to Charity’s questions about what was going to happen, Edwards frowned and put his cup down. He folded his hands and shook his head sadly.

“I’m afraid there’s little hope, Charity. I’m going to have to move my family soon.”

“You’d leave the village? Why, you’ve been here my whole life.”

“I know, but the way things are happening, people are leaving, and there won’t be enough scholars for school and no one to pay my fees.”

This was the greatest shock Charity had heard. She had been troubled, along with many others, about the fate of the village and the inhabitants, and now for Mr. Edwards to leave was worse than she had expected. Then she remembered her conversation about Oregon. “Tell me about Oregon, Mr. Edwards.”

“Oregon, is it? Is your father thinking of going to Oregon?”

“No sir, he’s not, but I am. We’ve got to go somewhere, and I barely know where it is.”

“Let me show you.” Edwards rose and pulled a large book from the shelf. He opened it up and turned it so she could look at it. “Here we are in Pennsylvania, and here is Oregon.”