Angel Train (5 page)

Her Uncle Paul had furnished a large room and had agreed to let the men come in five at a time so that she could see as many as possible. He had tables set up, and the sweets she had brought filled the tops of them. The warden had provided plates and fresh coffee for all who wished it, and, of course, they all did.

The first group of men scrambled in, wearing coarse, gray prison dress. All of them had shaved heads, which made their appearance more wolfish than was actually true.

Charity introduced herself. “Good morning. I’m glad to see you. My name is Charity Morgan. I’ve met some of you before, perhaps, but I want you all to taste some of my cooking. I am considered a very good cook.”

The men moved forward eagerly, and Charity spoke to each one. She did not give a tract to every inmate, only those who showed an interest, and it was not until the second group of prisoners entered that she met a young man who appeared to be no more than sixteen or seventeen years old.

“What’s your name?” she asked.

“Billy Watson, ma’am.”

“Well, Billy, would you rather have pie or cake or cookies?”

“Any will do me, ma’am.”

“How about some nice blackberry cobbler?”

“Oh, ma’am, that would be very nice.”

The other prisoners were eating wolfishly, and one of them, a big bruising man who had introduced himself as Jack Canreen, said, “Hey, Billy, you get us something to take back to the cell, and I’ll let you keep half of it.”

Charity turned and stared at him. “If I give it to him, he’ll keep all of it.”

Canreen grinned roughly. He was rough in every aspect. His face showed the marks of battle, and his hands were like hams. “Billy takes care of me. He’s like my daddy, ain’t you, Billy?”

Charity tried to stare him down, but his eyes were bold and innocent. “How about another piece of that cake, Charity?”

Charity did not like his attitude. She cut him another piece of cake, however, and said, “Are you a Christian man, Mr. Canreen?” The other inmates laughed, and one of them, a tall man who had said absolutely not a word but had taken coffee and a piece of pie, smiled briefly.

“No, Jack’s no Christian. He belongs to the devil.”

Canreen shot a glance at the tall man who must have been at least six feet three inches. He had a dark complexion and was sunburned so that his light blue eyes seemed to gleam almost electrically. “You stay out of this, Tremayne.”

The tall man took a sip of coffee, shrugged, and said no more.

Before this group left, she pulled Billy to one side. She felt sorry for the young man. “How old are you, Billy?”

“Seventeen.”

“And what are you in for?”

“I was convicted of burglary. I got in with the wrong bunch, Miss Charity.”

“That big man, the one called Canreen, does he bully you?”

Fear touched the young man’s eyes. “Yes, ma’am, he bullies everybody—except Casey Tremayne.”

“If I give you some cookies, can you hide them from him?”

“No, ma’am, he’ll shake me down as soon as I get out of here.”

“Before I leave, I’ll have my uncle bring you back, and I’ll give you something extra good. Are you a Christian man, Billy?”

“My ma was. I guess I’m nothing.”

“Here, take this.” She handed him a small New Testament, and he took it awkwardly. “Thank you, ma’am, I’ll sure read it.”

She watched the young man go and then greeted the next group. At noon she had lunch with her uncle who did not eat the prison food but what Eileen brought in covered dishes. They had a meal of pork chops, mashed potatoes, and green salad that she was surprised to see.

“Eileen knows how to grow things,” Uncle Paul said.

“She’s a good cook,” Charity said. Her mind returned to the prisoners. “I feel so sorry for these men.”

“So do I,” Paul said, shrugging his shoulders. “Most of them are here because they couldn’t control themselves. Others, more or less, got caught up in the machinery.”

“I think that young fellow Billy Watson must be one of those.”

“Yes, he is. Doesn’t have any business being here. The other prisoners brutalize him. There’s nothing I can do about it, I’m afraid.”

“The big man, Canreen. He bullies him.”

“Canreen’s a hard case. He bullies everybody.”

“But not the one called Tremayne.”

Paul’s wife shot his niece a glance. “You met Tremayne? You get a smile out of him?”

“No, I didn’t.”

“You never will. He’s a hard one. Canreen wouldn’t bully him. He tried it once and lost a couple of teeth in the process.”

“He seems angry about something, Tremayne I mean.”

“Yes, his name is Casey Tremayne. He’s got an interesting story. He’s not from the North, you know. He grew up in the West. As a matter of fact, his folks were killed in an Indian raid, and he was raised by the Sioux until he was twelve. Then he got away from them.”

“What’s he in for?”

“He half killed a man. They got him for attempted murder. Trouble is, the man he shot was the nephew of the attorney general of the state of Pennsylvania. He was pretty well railroaded, and he’s bitter about it.”

“He looks different from the others.”

“Well, that’s his Western side, I guess. He’s been all over the West. He was a trapper for a while, trapping beavers and prospecting for gold. He knows that country.”

“How long is he in for?”

“He comes up for parole pretty soon, but he’ll never make it.”

“Why not?”

“He can’t behave himself. He’s angry at the world, and anytime anybody crosses him he lashes out and that includes guards. No way to get out of this place.”

“I’d like to have that young man Billy back and give him some extra food. He took a Bible, too, but he said Canreen would take the food away if I gave it to him.”

“You can have him back in. Would two o’clock be about right?”

“That’ll be fine, Uncle Paul.”

* * *

LATE THAT NIGHT CHARITY was tired, for she had spent all day at the prison. Many of the prisoners were eager to talk, and some would listen to her urging to look to Jesus for salvation. Some rebuffed her, and some simply remained silent. She had finished dinner, and she was sitting in front of the fire with her Uncle Paul. Eileen was in the kitchen.

The two talked for a long time. Finally, Charity asked, “Do you think the dream I had about you means anything?”

“It might. Your mother would have known. She was very close to God. He spoke to her often in dreams.” Charity stirred. Bryce gave her a careful look and said, “All this you’ve told me about Oregon, you think I can help you with that?”

“I don’t know how you could, Uncle Paul.”

Paul Bryce was a deeply religious man. He believed in the supernatural, that God entered into the lives of people. His sister had been a fine Christian, and their mother had been devout. He sat silently for a time and said, “Well, if God is in it, we’ll find out. Let me pray on this, Charity.”

“All right, Uncle Paul. I hope God speaks to you.”

CHARITY HAD EXTENDED HER visit to three days, and she had given away all her tracts and, of course, all the food she had brought. A feeling kept pulling at her, and each time she had thought she was ready to leave, something had prevented her. She spent a great deal of time alone, praying and seeking the face of God, as she always did, but for some reason she knew with certainty there was a purpose in her being here. She would not have put it in those terms, but it kept her at her uncle’s house longer than she had first intended.

Finally, on the fourth day of her visit, she had risen early and was fixing breakfast when her uncle came in. He was dressed and ready for work in the same dark suit he always wore, and he greeted her pleasantly. But with one glance at him, Charity knew something was on his mind. He was a smiling man, as a rule, but now there was a seriousness about him. He accepted the cup of coffee she offered and said, “Sit down, Charity. There’s something I may need to tell you.”

“All right, Uncle Paul. What is it?”

The simple question seemed to trouble Paul Bryce. He turned the cup around and around in his hand, studied it as if there was an answer to be found in the black coffee, and finally
he looked at her. “There’s something that has come to me, and I wonder whether I should mention it or not. It’s about Oregon.”

Instantly Charity grew alert. “About Oregon? What about Oregon, Uncle Paul?”

“The difficulty seems to be getting there. From what I understand the land there is wonderful. They get plenty of rain, and crops would grow well. If a man wanted to go into logging, there’s the logging industry. There’s the biggest stand of timber on the continent, I believe, but getting there has been a problem for many.”

Charity sat very still. Hope was rising within her, and she said, “I’ve been praying every day for an answer. What is it you’ve been thinking?”

“This may not be of God,” Paul said slowly, “but it’s come to me so strongly that at least I can mention it. It has to do with your making the trip safely from Pennsylvania to Oregon, and I warn you that it may be simply wishing on my part— something I would like to see happen because I want your family and the people of the Way to prosper.”

“Tell me what it is, Uncle, please.”

“Well, I’ve told you that Casey Tremayne was a Western man. He knows that country. I’ve spoken with him without telling him anything about you or your problem there at the Pilgrim Way. He has been over the Oregon Trail several times and knows it well. He’s a Westerner. Knows animals, and I think it’s possible that he might lead you there safely.”

“But he’s a prisoner.”

“He’s eligible for parole, and he’ll be coming up any day now, but he won’t get it—that is, unless there are special circumstances.”

“What do you mean, Uncle Paul. I don’t understand you.”

“I’ve thought this out. I believe that I could get the parole board to issue a tentative or conditional parole to Tremayne and any of his fellow prisoners who have his same limitations. We have some hard men in here, men who likely will come up for parole many times and be turned down because of their behavior, but I’m in good standing with the members of the board. They usually take my advice, and I think although this is unusual, they might listen.”

“Tell me what you plan. It sounds wonderful.”

“Well, it’s not,” Paul said flatly. “It’s a
possibility
. But I have thought about this. If I could get the parole board to issue a
conditional
parole, conditional for the men who are chosen, their parole will be approved after they have escorted your people all the way to the Oregon Territory.” He leaned back and shook his head. “It sounds absolutely impossible, doesn’t it, Niece?”

“It sounds like the only hope we have, but would Tremayne agree to do it?”

“I think he might. He’s a bitter man. He’s had a terrible thing happen in his life, but this may be his only chance to get out for years. If you like, we’ll put it to him and let him make the decision. Maybe it’s a fleece, Charity. If he says no, then it’s not something that the Pilgrim Way needs to follow. If he says yes—”

“If he says yes, then the next miracle will come in convincing the members of the Way to accept him. But I believe it’s the Lord. The dream about you was so real, and now this has come. Can we talk to him at once?”

“If you’re sure this is what you want to do, you come along with me, and we’ll put the matter to him.”

* * *

JAMES ELSWORTH CHARTERHOUSE LOOKED up from the book he was reading, peering over his glasses at Tremayne. He was a slight man, no more than five feet nine inches, and thin as a rail. The planes of his face were sharp and aristocratic—high cheekbones, a thin nose, and a broad forehead. His hair was blond and his eyes a mild blue. He spoke with a pronounced English accent.

“I say, Casey, I wish you’d stop pacing the floor like a caged tiger.” He waited for a response, and getting none, he added, “Have one of those lovely cookies I begged from Miss Morgan.”

“I don’t need any cookies. I need out of this hole! I’m going to die here.”

Charterhouse shrugged his thin shoulders with an eloquent gesture. “A very wise man once said, ‘
Quem di diligunt adulescens moritur, dum valet sentit sapit
.’”

Tremayne gave Charterhouse a disgusted look. “And what does that mean?” He pretended to be disgusted at his cell-mate’s use of Latin but was actually impressed. Elsworth, as he was called, was a graduate of Oxford and picked up foreign languages with effortless ease. He spoke and read German, French, Spanish, Greek, and Latin and apparently never forgot anything.

“Would you believe me if I told you it meant, ‘The snake fell out of the tree and ate the baby’?”

“That makes about as much sense as most of the things you spout off.”

“Dear boy, don’t be offensive! Actually, it’s a line from Plautus, and it means, ‘He whom the gods love dies young, while he has strength and senses and wits.’”

“Well, that’s a cheerful thought!”

“Well, it’s not too pleasant to grow old and sick.” Charterhouse put down his book, took his glasses off, and polished them. “You’re not going to die in here. Stop fighting the system and lick a few boots. You’ll get a parole that way.”

Casey turned to face Charterhouse squarely. “I won’t ever do that, Elsworth.”

“No, you’re too proud. And you don’t understand the dangers of pride. It’s all in the Bible, old fellow—in the book of James, the fourth chapter. ‘God resisteth the proud, but giveth grace unto the humble. . . . Cleanse your hands, ye sinners; and purify your hearts, ye double minded. . . . Humble yourselves in the sight of the Lord, and he shall lift you up.’ That’s what you need, old chap—a dose of humility.”

“It hasn’t worked for you, has it?”

“Not yet, but I’m a proud fellow—just like you.”

Casey Tremayne grinned. “You don’t belong in this place, Elsworth.” He had developed a real affection for the Englishman, in part because Charterhouse had been responsible for making life in a cell tolerable. Before he had been assigned as Casey’s cell mate, Tremayne had sunk into a morass of bitterness, had fought other inmates, and had given the guards a bad time. He had despised Charterhouse at first, but the Englishman introduced him to the world of books, and to Tremayne’s surprise, he had developed a sharp interest in the world of literature and history. Elsworth was filled with talk, and Casey found a friend in him.

“Don’t despair, Casey. This place is pretty bad, but we’ll get out of here one day.”

“I don’t think so. It would take a miracle, and I don’t believe in miracles.”

“My Uncle Seedy always said, ‘There’s no miracle for a man who doesn’t believe in them.’”

Casey laughed. “That uncle of yours is full of wise sayings. I think you made him up so you can spout your philosophy without taking the blame for the nonsense.”

“No indeed!” Elsworth protested. “Uncle Seedy is as real as you are. Practically raised me, as a matter of fact. And if you—”

Charterhouse was interrupted when a voice cut in. “Tremayne, the warden wants to see you. Get a move on.” The guard was a burly giant of a man named Willy Hankins. He was a rough sort and did the prisoners no favors. Charterhouse had said of him once, “If your beard was on fire, Hankins would light his cigarette on it.”

Tremayne said nothing but followed the guard down the corridor, wondering what he’d done wrong this time.

* * *

CHARITY SAT BOLT UPRIGHT in a chair in her uncle’s office. Bryce had ordered the guard to bring Tremayne in, and the two sat silently, both entertaining doubts and hopes. Finally, the door opened, and a guard said, “We have Tremayne here, Warden.”

“Let him come in, Hankins.”

As Tremayne came through the door, Charity suddenly had second thoughts about what was proposed. The man looked dangerous. He was far taller than average, and she had noticed that when he was there with the other inmates, he stood at least half a head taller than most of them. She had seen a lion once in a traveling circus, and there was something of a leonine quality in Casey Tremayne. He was not thick muscled but lithe, and his smooth movements weren’t often seen in
big men. His face was a mask, but his eyes were alert. They were the lightest blue possible, and though they were half hooded now as he studied the pair, she saw a hardness in him, and for a moment her heart failed her. But she was trusting God to give leadership in this matter.

“Tremayne, I have a rather unusual proposition for you,” the warden said, then hesitated. “You may as well sit down. This may take awhile.”

“Yes, Warden.” Tremayne turned, and once again Charity noticed how smoothly and easily he moved. Most men lacked his quickness. He pulled the chair across the desk from the warden, sat down, and fixed his gaze on Paul Bryce’s face. Most men would have been asking questions instantly, but Tremayne said nothing.

“You’ve met my niece, Miss Charity Morgan. She’s the daughter of my sister who passed away. Her family belongs to a religious group called the Pilgrim Way.”

Charity couldn’t read Tremayne’s face. She only half listened as her uncle traced the circumstances of the Way and ended by saying, “So you see, Tremayne, they’re going to have to leave here, and they don’t have a great deal of money. I’ve mentioned a possibility to her, and I’d like to lay it before you. You’re up for parole, but we both know your behavior will prohibit your getting it. You understand that?”

“Yes, sir.” The reply was brief and noncommittal, and Tremayne’s eyes moved from the warden’s face to meet Charity’s. She seemed held by his intense gaze, and then her uncle continued.

“I believe I see a possibility here of getting you out of this place. It may be a pipe dream, but I want to explain it to you.” Bryce leaned forward and said, “I believe I can convince the parole board to grant you a conditional parole.”

“Never heard of a thing like that.”

“It’s never been done, but I believe I can get the board to take a chance on you and on any of your fellow inmates who would be helpful. It would amount to your taking over as scout for the wagon train and getting them safely to Oregon. If you can do that, the parole will be affirmed for you and for any of the men who make the trip and who qualify in your judgment. What is your thinking about this?”

Casey Tremayne spoke instantly. His voice was soft, and he had a slight accent that Charity couldn’t identify. “I’ll do anything to get out of this place, Warden. I expect you know that.”

“I can’t blame you for that. You have any questions about the proposition?”

“A lot of questions,” Tremayne said instantly. “In the first place, what authority would I have with the wagon train?”

“Why do you ask that?”

“Because there are going to be difficulties along the way. This religious group is probably used to obeying a bishop or some such figure, a preacher perhaps. That would not work on the Oregon Trail. If an Indian attack comes, there wouldn’t be time to stop and have a prayer meeting.” He turned, and his lips turned up in a grin. “There are times, Miss Morgan, when action is needed instead of prayer.”

Charity spoke up quickly, “I don’t think there would be any problem. If I can convince my father and the elders to accept you, that would be one of the conditions they would have to agree to.”

Tremayne studied her and then shook his head. “I doubt if you can convince them.”

“I can if this thing is of God,” Charity said in a sprightly voice. “I know you don’t believe that, but I do.”

Tremayne studied her carefully; his eyes seemed to bore into her very mind and heart. She met his gaze, and finally he shrugged and said, “I think I’d like to do it, Warden.”

“All right. We’ll get everything set up here. Here’s a list of men due for parole but will never make it. They’re all troublemakers. I think you know them. You can choose four or five to go with you, and you’ll be their boss.”

Tremayne took the list of paper, and a quick smile swept across his face. “These are the worst hoodlums in this prison.” He glanced at Charity. “There are some murderers on this list. Some bank robbers. None of them are likely to join in your prayer meetings.”

“That won’t be your problem, Mr. Tremayne. Your problem will be to get us through safely to Oregon.”

“Could I have a pencil, Warden?” He took the pencil from Bryce, made some checks, and said, “I’ll take these four, and Billy Watson.”

Bryce stared at him. “Watson’s not exactly a tough sort of fellow.”

“No, but he needs to be out of here. Never should have been sent here in the first place.”

“There’ll be no trouble about him. You agree then?”

“Sure I agree, but I think Miss Morgan’s going to need a little miracle to get her people to agree with this.” His head turned toward Charity again. “You realize you’re asking a group of Bible-believing righteous folk to put their lives in the hands of a group of jailbirds.”

For an instant Charity’s heart nearly failed her, but she said, “I believe the Lord is in this. I’ve been praying and fasting, and it’s all come together. I’m going back home now. You talk to the men you want to take with you, and I’ll talk to my people.”