Homecoming Girls (42 page)

He watched from the windows as they followed the route through the high sierras, two additional engines enabling them to travel at reasonable speed through the long snow sheds, but when they came out of them, even with the additional engines they travelled so slowly through the high terrain that he and two of the men left the train and walked for an hour, savouring the exercise and the clean sharp air. Lorenzo marvelled at the beauty of the peaks and the white clouds which drifted above them and saw in the far distance herds of buffalo crossing the plain.

As they neared Ogden, the sky darkened and it began to rain, which turned to sleet and then snow. Lorenzo peered out of the rattling window, feeling the draught blowing in, and saw that the high ridges were white with snow. He fished around in his travelling bag for a warm scarf to wrap round his neck, and went towards the kitchen to make a hot drink.

One of the other men, Henry, was doing the same and the kettle was already steaming. ‘Here,’ he said. ‘I’ve just made coffee, enough for two.’

Lorenzo thanked him and asked if he travelled this route often.

‘Sure. Do it three or four times a year, though I try not to come in winter. The snow gets pretty bad on the other side of Ogden. Hope you’ve got some sturdy boots!’

‘I haven’t,’ Lorenzo confessed. ‘I’ve never seen snow. I’ve
lived all my life in San Francisco, seen fog and rain and felt earthquakes, but never seen snow.’

Henry took a gulp of coffee. ‘Then you’ve sure got an experience coming. Be warned.’

They shivered in the station house in Ogden, though there was hot food to eat. A train with another crew was due in two hours, but by now there was a blizzard blowing and Henry reckoned it would be late, which it was. Three hours later they were taking it in turns to sit or stand near the stove. The second-class passengers stayed on the first train, for they had no money to buy food and were therefore not invited by the railroad porters or conductors to share the fire.

Another hour went by and the ladies in their party were becoming distressed by the cold. The men gave up their places by the fire and Lorenzo and another man went out to forage for more wood to burn and to persuade the railroad men to come out of their hut and bring more coal, which they did, although reluctantly.

When the train finally arrived, they were told that the delay had been because of an overturned engine on the line, which had to be moved before any other transport could get through.

‘There are snow drifts six foot high,’ one of the drivers said. ‘Never seen such snow before! We’ll need all the manpower we can get.’ They organized a work train with another six railmen on board to accompany them back down the line; the passengers piled back in the carriages, the ladies deciding to take to their beds in an attempt to get warm.

They all agreed that the next two days were a nightmare. The train stopped and started and the railroad men were kept constantly busy clearing the line of snow, which they shovelled to the side of the track. A blizzard was blowing and it seemed that as fast as they cleared the snow more came down. The railroad men from the work train grumbled at the extra labour, complaining that their wages didn’t cover situations like this. Lorenzo, Henry and another man from their carriage put on their coats and volunteered to help in
order to keep moving, clearing the snow with shovels and pieces of wood.

They moved on for another two hours before once again coming to a halt. By now it was dark and the railmen were exhausted and unwilling to continue; the volunteers came back on board, their clothing wet through, the ladies gave them hot soup to warm them and they all took to their beds. From the safety of their bunks they heard the howl of wolves.

‘This I do for you, Jewel,’ Lorenzo murmured as he huddled beneath his blanket. His ears were burning from the driving snow. ‘Never in my life have I been so cold.’

The next morning the blizzard was still blowing and the line was blocked by snowdrifts. Other passengers volunteered to help clear it; it was at least a way of keeping warm. Henry said they were about an hour’s walk from the nearest town and he was willing to go for supplies if someone else would come too in case of difficulty.

Lorenzo agreed to go with him but by now his leather boots were soaking wet; another passenger offered to lend him his waterproof galoshes if they would fit, which they did, and he and Henry set off in the face of a blinding gale-force wind. It took them nearly two hours to get to the town, but they bought enough bread for everyone in their carriage, as well as extra tea, coffee, biscuits and muffins. Both men were warm though tired when they returned to find the line had been cleared and they had another two or three miles of walking as the train had moved on without them.

And so it continued for two more days and nights and it seemed as if the journey was never going to end, but the conductor came to tell them that they would move much faster once they reached the state of New York, which they should do in two days. This cheered everyone immensely until the following afternoon, when once more they were beset by blizzards and a blocked line. Lorenzo and Henry were dispatched to the nearest town to ask for extra men to help clear the snow, and a gang of twenty came back with
them, armed with shovels and spades. Within two hours they were once more on their way.

As they rolled into New York Grand Central everyone shook hands and it felt as if they were parting from dear friends. Lorenzo asked about accommodation and was directed to an establishment close by the station. He paid for a meal and a hot bath, fell into his bed and slept for twelve hours whilst the laundry service washed all the clothes he had been wearing and dried out his boots.

When he felt human again, he enquired of the desk clerk at the railroad terminus regarding trains to Dreumel’s Creek. The clerk shook his head. ‘Never heard of it. Is it in the Appalachians? Up Ohio way?’

‘I guess so,’ Lorenzo agreed, but he’d never thought to look on a map. He only knew that Jewel had travelled by way of New York.

‘Hey, buddy,’ the clerk called to a colleague. ‘You ever heard of Dreumel’s Creek up Ohio way?’

The other clerk came over. ‘Isn’t that somewhere near where they had a fire? Where a town got burnt down?’

‘Yes,’ Lorenzo said eagerly. ‘It is. The town’s called Yeller.’

The second clerk pursed his lips and shook his head. ‘We ain’t got a line going that way.’

‘Why d’ya want to go there if it’s bin burnt down?’ the first clerk asked quizzically. ‘You planning on building there?’

‘No,’ Lorenzo said patiently. ‘I don’t want to go to Yeller. I want to go to Dreumel’s Creek.’

‘Best go by Woodsville then,’ the two men agreed. ‘Then by coach,’ said one. ‘But if it’s the place I think it is, you might not get through,’ said the other. ‘They get a good deal of snow up there.’

Lorenzo sighed and said he’d buy a ticket anyway, but was told he’d have to wait until morning as the last train to Woodsville had already left and there wasn’t another that day. He went back to the hotel, booked for another night, ate another mediocre meal and went back to bed.

Lorenzo did not think it possible to have another such gruelling experience of rail travel. But the journey to Woodsville almost equalled that of the Transcontinental in its arduousness. It took a whole day to Fort Duquesne, where they were due to change trains for the final trek to Woodsville, but again the line was blocked in several places by deep snow which had to be cleared before further progress could be made. The train they should have caught had already left without them and so passengers slept on board until the morning, huddled into their coats and blankets. When the next train arrived it was cold and draughty and there was no food, only tea and coffee, and Lorenzo had omitted to buy any supplies whilst in New York.

There were just three people in Woodsville wanting to travel on to Dreumel’s Creek; the other two were inhabitants of Yeller who had been away on business and were now trying to get back home. One of these was Ted Allen, the other a victualler. Ted Allen introduced himself to Lorenzo and asked him what brought him to Dreumel’s Creek at this time of year.

‘I’m visiting a friend,’ Lorenzo told him, unaware of how small Dreumel’s Creek was in comparison with San Francisco, or that Ted would know everyone who lived there, being one of the first inhabitants.

‘I hope we can get through,’ Ted said. ‘We opened up a track before I left, but it might well have closed again.’

The victualler nodded gloomily and said that he wished now that he had waited until spring before travelling.

‘No use waiting for the weather,’ Ted said. ‘Life and business must still go on. Somebody will keep the track open, but we might have to walk through. The coach, if we can get one, will only go as far as the mountain pass. Does your friend know you’re coming?’ he asked Lorenzo. ‘If he does, he’ll no doubt get a party together to clear a way.’

‘Erm, no,’ Lorenzo said. ‘And it’s a young lady I’m visiting, not a gentleman.’

‘Ah!’ Ted said quizzically. ‘Perhaps I know her? I know most folk in Dreumel. She could even be a friend of my daughter’s. She got wed recently to an Englishman. They went straight off to England and have only just returned home again.’

‘Are you an Englishman, sir?’ Lorenzo asked. ‘I don’t recognize your accent.’

‘I was,’ Ted said. ‘But I’ve lived in America longer than I ever lived in England, so I regard myself as an American now. And you? Italian, are you?’

Lorenzo shook his head. ‘Extraction, yes, but I was born in San Francisco, so I’m an American.’

‘And the young lady you’re visiting? What did you say her name was?’

I didn’t, Lorenzo thought, but I don’t suppose it matters. ‘Jewel Newmarch,’ he said. ‘We knew each other when we were children. Her father, Edward Newmarch, lived next door to us in San Francisco. I don’t remember him, but my mother said he was a fine and generous man.’

Lorenzo felt Ted Allen’s gaze on him intensify. Then Ted took in a breath. ‘I know Jewel,’ he said. ‘And I once knew her father.’

They had to search out a driver willing to take the road to Dreumel’s Creek and they asked several before finding one who would undertake the journey. They paid him twice the normal fare but all three regarded it a necessity and worth the price.

The road was thick with packed snow and Lorenzo wondered
how the coach didn’t turn over, but the driver was adept and the pair of greys steady and sure, and six hours later they were headed for what seemed to Lorenzo to be a mountain wall. The driver slowed and then stopped. ‘Can’t go any further,’ he called down to them. ‘I don’t want to get stuck in the valley for a week. This is where we say goodbye.’

But first of all they helped him turn the team and coach round so that he was facing back to Woodsville and his long return journey. Ted Allen offered him refreshment if he would like to walk into the valley with them but he declined and said he’d rather get back. The horses, he said, would be fine knowing they were on their way home.

The three men shouldered their bags and set off through the mountain pass, which had been kept clear as Ted had predicted.

‘Are you staying at the Dreumel Marius?’ Ted asked. ‘They’ll have vacancies, but you can come and stay with me and my wife if you’d care to. It’s a bit further to walk to Yeller. We’ve got a small hotel too, but there’s nothing else much in the town as it was burnt down last year.’

‘Yes, I heard about that,’ Lorenzo said. ‘May I keep my options open, sir?’

‘Sure.’ Ted smiled. ‘You’ll want to know what kinda reception’s waiting for you first!’

‘Yes,’ Lorenzo said hesitantly. ‘I certainly do.’

An hour later they were standing in front of the Marius hotel and on the porch was a man, not too tall but sturdily built, who was gazing out at the creek, which was full to the brink, the water lapping over the edge. He saw Ted and lifted his hand in greeting, and then came down the steps.

‘The creek’s very full,’ he said to Ted. ‘I think we might have to break through the bank into the meadow on the other side to let it flow out. It’ll come on to the road if we don’t.’

Then he noticed the newcomer and gave a smile. ‘How do you do, sir? You’re a stranger here?’

‘I am, sir,’ Lorenzo said.

‘This is Wilhelm Dreumel,’ Ted broke in. ‘Founding father
of Dreumel’s Creek. This is Lorenzo Galli,’ he told Wilhelm. ‘He’s come in search of Jewel.’

Wilhelm invited him in, in his customary welcoming manner, and Ted and the victualler went on their way to Yeller. ‘Jewel has spoken of you,’ Wilhelm said, ‘but she didn’t say that she was expecting you. At least not to me.’

‘I wrote to say I’d like to call,’ Lorenzo said. ‘But I didn’t give a time or date, which was just as well because I’ve had a most horrendous journey. I’d no idea that I should encounter such snow! There were times when I thought I’d never get here.’

Wilhelm laughed. ‘You live in San Francisco! My wife remembers you from when you were a child.’

‘Oh!’ Lorenzo suddenly remembered. ‘Of course. It was your wife who took Jewel away to England. How is she, sir? Your wife, I mean.’

‘She is very well indeed.’ Wilhelm beamed. ‘As is our infant daughter. Come, take a seat and rest yourself.’ He led him into a small sitting room and signalled to someone to bring a hot drink and food. ‘Jewel is sitting with Georgiana now to ensure that she rests, and I suspect watching over the baby, Clarissa.’