The Journey of Josephine Cain (11 page)

“Indeed. My husband and I had planned to homestead in Ohio.”

“What?” All thoughts of Josephine’s plight left her. “You have never mentioned a husband before. I thought Schultz was your maiden name, and the ‘missus’ was just a courtesy.”

“My maiden name was Cain.” Frieda took a few steps away from the bed before turning around. “My husband was Karl. Karl Schultz. He was from Germany. We met shortly after we both arrived in America.”

Josephine was embarrassed by her ignorance. “What happened to him?”

“We were living in Boston at the time, but he went back to Hamburg to settle some business with his father’s estate so we’d have the funds to homestead. But while he was back in Germany, a fire destroyed much of the city, and he died trying to save his family home.”

It was Josephine’s turn to offer comfort. “Why didn’t I know this? Why have you never mentioned him?”

Frieda pulled a handkerchief from her cuff and dabbed at her eyes. “I try not to think about him and all that could have been.” She shook her head as if wanting to dispel the memories. “I was carrying Karl’s child when he left, but after I lost him, I gave birth too soon. My baby girl died.”

Josephine clapped a hand to her mouth, stifling a sob. “Oh, my dear Frieda. What you have endured.” All she had known about Frieda’s past was that she was Papa’s cousin. She had never met Frieda’s parents, never bothered to ask the woman much about her life before she’d come to live
with the Cains, and just assumed . . .

Assumed too much. And not enough.

Frieda blew her nose, then lifted her chin in an act of strength. “After Karl and my baby died, my parents died too, so I was all alone. I remembered your father was in New York City, so I sought him out, and he kindly took me in. He was recently engaged to your mother, and they were moving to Washington. Grateful for the support, I became your mother’s lady’s maid. And then you were born. You became the little girl I lost. . . .”

Josephine pulled Frieda into her arms. “I love you like a mother. I always have.”

They rocked each other until their tears abated. Frieda was the one to pull away. “Just know that wherever you go, I go. If you want to go west for the celebration, I will go with you.”

“Indians and all?”

“Indians and all.”

Convincing Lewis to accompany her west was easy. But convincing Mother?

Josephine had a plan. It was manipulative, but Mother wasn’t giving her a choice.

She slipped her hands around Lewis’s arm and whispered in his ear. “Use all your charm, Lewis. Make her see that it is imperative we go to the meridian celebration. It is an honor, and as Papa’s daughter, I—”

“I know what to say. Leave it to me.”

She kissed his cheek and let him enter the parlor alone. But then he surprised her by giving a wink and closing the doors.

Josephine hadn’t expected to be in the room with them, but she
had
wanted to eavesdrop. She put her ear to one of the sliding doors and found the voices muffled. Too muffled.

The butler came in the foyer and gave her a look. “It is all right, Dowd. I promise.”

He raised an eyebrow and left her alone.

“Psst!”

Josephine was distracted by Frieda, standing on the landing above. “What’s he saying?”

“I’m trying to hear!” She waved her off and went back to the door to listen.

But then she heard a very foreign sound.

Laughter. Her mother’s laughter. And Aunt’s too!

They hadn’t laughed in over a year. Then she heard Aunt’s snort—which meant she was laughing hard. It had been even longer since she had heard that.

What was Lewis saying to them?

She put her hand on the door handle, aching to join the merriment. Thankfully, she didn’t have long to wait. The doors opened, and Lewis said, “Come join us.”

She looked to his face, wanting answers, but he simply drew her toward the ladies. “Would you like to tell your daughter the good news, Mrs. Cain?”

Mother nodded and even stood. “After speaking with Mr. Simmons, I have changed my mind about the one-hundredth meridian celebration. You may go, with Mr. Simmons as your escort and Cousin Frieda as your chaperone.”

Incredulous, Josephine felt her mouth open. “Really?”

“Yes, my dear. Really.”

She did not risk asking how or why Lewis had managed it; she just stared at him in wonder. Then she embraced her mother and her aunt. “Thank you, thank you. Papa will be so pleased.”

When her mother’s smile faded, she realized she had not chosen the right words. “I mean, he would rather that you and Aunt Bernice accompany me, but at least one of us will see all he has accomplished.”

Mother offered a conciliatory shrug. “Go on now, you two. I am sure you have many preparations to make. Gather Frieda, and then you may use your father’s study for your planning.”

Josephine kissed each woman’s cheek and left quickly, still fearful they would change their minds. Once in the foyer, she whispered to Lewis, “What did you say to them?”

“That’s between the ladies and me.”

“But—”

He put a finger to her lips. “Let’s make a list of what we need to bring, shall we?”

Mr. Connelly ran out of the butcher shop when he saw Lewis walk past. “You ever coming to work, Simmons?”

“Right now. Just let me change clothes.”

His boss’s eyes gave him a good once-over. “You always dressing in fancy clothes makes me wonder what you got cooking.”

“Just trying to better myself, that’s all.” He unlocked the door that led up the stairs to his apartment. “I’ll be right down.”

“The chickens won’t wait,” Connelly said.

Or the cows. Or the sheep or pigs or ducks or . . . If Lewis could get by with never eating meat again, it would be fine with him.

Once upstairs, he carefully hung his coat on a hook, put the shirt over the back of the chair, and smoothed the trousers on his bed before draping them across the table. His new boots—pinched from a shoemaker’s shop—were wiped of the day’s dust and set at attention near the door. Only then did he take up his work pants and shirt, and pull on the boots he’d been given when he’d joined the army the first time.

He looked in the cracked wall mirror as he buttoned his work shirt. “Congratulations,” he told himself. He couldn’t believe his good fortune. To go west with the rich and illustrious notables of society? With Josephine? Finally, his luck was changing.

Luck. He didn’t believe in luck.
He
was making this happen.

He gave himself another congratulations for winning over her mother and aunt. Telling them he wanted to ask the general for permission to marry his daughter . . . It was a stroke of genius.

And a central part of the plan. She was a prize—and a means to an end.

Although she was an expensive one to woo, he’d reap the spoils after the wedding. If not immediately in money, in the satisfaction of fulfilling a promise he’d made to himself after seeing his father murdered.

He heard a broom banging on the ceiling below.

Off to work.

“Sergeant Maguire. If you please.”

Hudson was not surprised to be singled out by General Cain, because ever since he’d helped the general during the Spotted Tail visit, he’d successfully handled some other special assignments.

They had not gone unnoticed. By anyone.

He set aside his spike maul and followed the general back to the railcar that housed his office.

“Yankee favoritism, that’s what it is,” said a Confederate who seemed intent on keeping the war alive. He spit on the ground, barely missing Hudson’s boots as he walked past.

“Why don’t he ever give a Reb special duties?” asked another Southerner.

“Because everybody knows you Rebs don’t have the brains of a prairie dog,” said a former Union soldier from Maine.

A fistfight broke out, but Hudson didn’t stay to see who won. No one ever
won
. Boss would break it up, and the men would go back to working side-by-side until the next time. He couldn’t blame them for getting testy. He wasn’t too keen on working with ex-soldiers from the South who would have shot him on sight eighteen months ago.

Of course, he would have shot them too. War was strange that way. Men shot each other, not seeing the man but the uniform of an opposing philosophy. Seeing his brother John get shot, knowing how impersonal the bullet was . . .

The general was waiting for him to catch up. “I hope my singling you out isn’t causing many problems.”

“None I can’t handle.”

“Good, because I need someone I can trust, and you’ve proven yourself that man—during the war, and now.”

“I appreciate that, General.”

They reached the last car on the train, which was exclusively the general’s. They entered at the back along a small landing. The car was outfitted with furniture like a parlor, but with a desk at the near end, along with a table set up with a telegraph machine. As they added more track and moved on, the telegraph line was the first thing they set up. It was their link to civilization.

Hudson spotted two open doors at the far end, one revealing the edge of a bed and the other showing a washbasin on a stand. The perks of being in charge.

“Have a seat, Sergeant.”

“If you don’t mind, sir, I’d rather you just called me Maguire.”

The general hesitated the smallest moment, then nodded. “Of course. I should have realized that. Maguire it is.”

Hudson sat in an oak slatted chair, and the general sat behind his desk. The man took a deep breath, as if needing to fuel his words. “The vice president of the Union Pacific, Dr. Durant, is eager to show off the progress of the railroad and has sent out three hundred invitations to important people back east—including President Johnson and all the members of Congress. Two excursion trains are going to meet up in Omaha, and the guests will head west to witness what we’ve done to reach the one-hundredth meridian.”

“But we’re not there yet.”

“We will be by early October. Because the land is flat, we’re moving along nicely.”

“Flat and hot.” Sometimes the air was too thick to breathe.

“It
has
been a scorcher of a summer. Nonetheless, I have been authorized to offer bonuses if we are able to reach the milestone by mid-October, when the guests arrive.”

That was only three weeks away. Yet September had brought slightly cooler weather, and they
were
making good progress.

“What do you need me to do?”

The general shook his head. “It all sounds so theatrical and inane but . . . Durant is arranging the excursion’s first stop in Columbus. Hundreds of tents must be set up for the guests, and—”

“The president is going to stay in a tent?”

“I doubt President Johnson will come, as he’s been quite indifferent to the railroad. It was Lincoln who had the vision.”

“I didn’t know that.”

The general nodded. “Tale’s told that before he was president, Lincoln stood on a bluff east of Omaha and pointed west, seeing the endless plain just begging for a railroad. He was in Council Bluffs, Iowa, to check on some land that someone was using as security for a three-thousand-dollar loan. Sometimes I think that loan was God-sent, a means to get Lincoln in the right place to see the possibilities. General Dodge was there too, sharing the dream.” He turned to Hudson. “Things like that are not coincidences.”

There was such intensity in his eyes. “No, sir.”

With a shake of his head, he moved on. “But if President Johnson does come . . . perhaps Durant will give up his fancy Lincoln car.”

“Lincoln
car
?”

“President Lincoln’s funeral railcar. The one that carried his body from Washington to Illinois. Durant bought it for his own use.” He repeated the words again. “His
own
use.”

“That sounds kind of . . .”

“Blasphemous?”

“Disrespectful.”

“Between you and me, that’s a good word to describe Thomas Durant. He has the clout and power we need to get this job done, but in the meantime, it is best to know that Dr. Durant comes first to Dr. Durant.”

“I’ll remember that, sir.” He had another question. “This Durant is a doctor?”