The Journey of Josephine Cain (12 page)

“An eye doctor.”

It seemed ridiculous. “An eye doctor is heading up a railroad?”

The general shrugged. “All that aside, I need someone I can trust to go to Columbus and make sure things are set up right—someone who won’t be tempted by the abundance of whiskey there.”

“Most whiskey tastes like turpentine.”

“Bad whiskey certainly can.” The general shook the subject away and got back to the work. “Will you handle it for me?”

And get away from spiking for a few days?
“Of course. You can count on me.” Then he had an idea. “I probably could use some help. Even one other man.”

“You have someone in mind?”

“I do.”

“Yee-ha!” Raleigh said, waving his hat in the air. “When do we leave?”

“We’ll have to ride horses back to Grand Island where we can catch an east-bound train. How’s
now
sound?”

Raleigh tossed his maul to the ground with a loud
thump
. “Let’s go.”

They walked away under a bevy of questions, which Hudson didn’t stick around to answer.

Most men didn’t handle envy well.

Lewis checked their itinerary. “It says to meet the other guests on Track Three, the train heading to Pittsburgh and then Chicago.”

“What about our luggage?” Josephine asked. Although she was used to big-city crowds, the number of people who were passing through New York City’s Grand Central Station was daunting.

Frieda gripped her arm, clearly unsettled. “What if we board the wrong train?”

“We will be fine,” Josephine said, even though she suffered the same concerns. “Lewis will take us where we need to go.”

As if in response to her confidence, Lewis stopped staring at the itinerary, accosted a conductor, and asked questions. The man pointed to their right, then took their baggage claim tickets, handing them to a porter.

Lewis returned. “Down there. Look for two locomotives decorated with flags.”

“Shouldn’t we eat something before we board?” Frieda asked.

“I asked about that, and the man said there was no need to eat in the station. There is a refreshment saloon in one of the cars—an entire car dedicated to feeding us.”

Josephine took Lewis’s arm and rewarded him with a smile as they made their way through the crowd.

The conductor was right. There was no way they could have missed the excursion train. American flags adorned the locomotive’s every appendage. Once the train was on its way, a man came through the cars, greeting everyone.

“Who’s that?” Lewis asked Josephine.

“I don’t know, but he is evidently important.”

It was their turn to be greeted. “Hello there,” the man said. “My name is Grenville Dodge and I’d like to welcome—”

“General Grenville Dodge?” Lewis asked. “Of the siege of Atlanta?”

The man stood more erect and swiped a hand over his beard. “You know your history, sir. And you are?”

“I am Lewis Simmons, an illustrator for the
Washington Chronicle
.”

Josephine felt her eyebrow rise but let the white lie go. To her knowledge, Lewis had not heard back from Mr. Wilson at the newspaper.

General Dodge turned his bright eyes on her. “And you, young lady. Are you Mrs. Simmons?”

She felt herself blush. “Oh no. I am Josephine Cain. My father is—”

“General Reginald Cain.” He nodded appreciatively. “I have heard him boast about you. Your father and I are working together on the railroad. He on the track, and I as the consulting engineer.”

“And what does a consulting engineer do?” she asked.

“As little as possible,” he said with a laugh. Then he added, “I plan the route and sort out anything in our way.”

“He means me,” said another man, coming up behind him.

This man had a longer beard and a devious gleam in his eyes.

General Dodge stepped aside and made introductions. “Dr. Durant, I would like you to meet Mr. Simmons, Miss Cain—”

“General Cain’s daughter,” Durant said. “I’ve heard about you, my dear.”

Somehow the way he said “my dear” made Josephine uncomfortable. She responded, “Nice to meet you, Dr. Durant.” Then she turned to Frieda, who had been left out. “I would like both of you to meet Mrs. Schultz, my father’s cousin, who is accompanying us.”

Frieda’s eyes were large, and she was clearly uncomfortable with the attention. “Nice to meet you.”

They gave her a quick nod, and Dr. Durant rested a hand upon Josephine’s shoulder. “Do let us know if there is anything we can do to make your experience more . . . pleasurable.”

Although his touch was ostensibly innocent, Josephine wanted to move out of his reach. There was something discomfiting about Dr. Durant, even if he was an executive of the entire railroad project. Her feeling propelled her to ask, “Are you married, Dr. Durant?”

He pulled his hand away. “I am. With two beautiful children.”

“How nice for you.” Whether it was nice for
them
was another matter.

He moved his hand to Dodge’s back, propelling the two of them toward the next group of guests.

“My, my,” Frieda said. “That doctor seemed important.”

“He
is
important,” Lewis said. “Were it not for him, there would be no Transcontinental Railroad.”

“I think my father and thousands of workers would beg to differ.”

He gave her a teasing smile. “I meant no offense.”

When Josephine didn’t answer, Frieda jumped in. “None taken.”

Lewis had never been on a train.

He knew how ridiculous that sounded—how ridiculous it was for a man of twenty-two to be devoid of that experience—but it was the truth.

Just after Lewis joined the Union army in a fit of ridiculous patriotism, his father cut ties with Vanderbilt and decided to move the family to North Carolina, where they had relatives. So Lewis was stranded up north while his mother and father moved south, into a state that had seceded from the Union.

“You fight for yourself first, and your country last,” his father had written to Lewis, begging him to reconsider his choice and join them. After a short while, North or South no longer mattered to Lewis, and the army mattered even less, so he eventually ditched his Union blues, headed south, and began working with his father—for the other side.

So he had experience. Plenty of it. Just not with trains.

He knew that the key to this trip was to act as if he belonged. Finding himself in a situation that a normal man-of-bearing should know about, he needed to act at ease. Once they got west—when it would be new to everyone—he might be able to let down his guard and be himself.

It had taken five days to travel on the excursion train from New York City to St. Joseph, Missouri. In Chicago they’d picked up the Great Western Light Guard Band. Their specialty seemed to be polka tunes, which gave him a headache.

Lewis enjoyed meeting the myriad of important people on board: President Lincoln’s son Robert; George Pullman, who designed opulent sleeper cars for trains; a congressman from Ohio named Rutherford B. Hayes, who, with five war wounds, had plenty of entertaining stories to tell; three senators; a Scottish earl; a French marquis; and all sorts of railroad bigwigs with their families. Two hundred guests, all told.

Lewis was glad that Frieda and Josephine enjoyed talking to the wives and playing with the children, leaving him free to make himself known. With such an opportunity before him, he felt like a hungry stallion in a stall of golden oats. He would flit from one conversation to the next, milking the contact, eagerly telling people of his artistic ability.

He felt a bit guilty for doing so and knew his professional ambition had to remain secondary to his central objective. Yet he couldn’t help himself. Surely his parents would have understood. Mother had always encouraged his art.

His father, less so. He’d always wanted Lewis to join him in the shipping business, and for a time, Father had gotten his way. Lewis first learned about steamers working with him in New York. His life would have continued in that direction if the war hadn’t mucked everything up.

But that was the past. Life was giving him a chance to use his art. He’d be stupid not to take advantage of it.

During the second day of their journey, Lewis had taken out his paper and pen and started drawing portraits for the rich and famous. Today he was sketching the duo of Mrs. Dodge and her daughter.

“Sit still, Lettie,” Mrs. Dodge said to the ten-year-old. “We brought you along because we thought you were a big girl. Perhaps we were wrong and should have brought your sisters.”

Lettie was immediately still, allowing Lewis to get back to work.

“How many children do you have, Mrs. Dodge?”

“Three girls. Lettie, eight-year-old Eleanor—”

“Ellie,” Lettie corrected.

“We call her Ellie,” Mrs. Dodge conceded. “And finally Anne, who’s only seven months.” She looked around with only her eyes, being careful not to move her head, then lowered her voice. “I am sure my husband would like a boy, but—”

General Dodge strode up the aisle and rested a hand on Lettie’s head. “Girls are fine with me, Ruth Anne. I wouldn’t give them up for a battalion of boys.”

Lettie beamed, and Lewis had no further problems with her fidgeting.

When the sketch was finished, Mrs. Dodge gushed over the result, “How much do I owe you, Mr. Simmons?”

He wished he could let her pay—let any of them pay—for he was out the cost of the supplies, but he repeated what he’d told all the others, “Consider it a gift.”

Mrs. Dodge held the drawing like a delicate masterpiece. “Bless you, sir. Lettie and I will cherish this always.”

Which was something. If he couldn’t get paid in coin, he’d take accolades. They would remember him for his art.

And, perhaps, for his less admirable future achievements.

It was unfortunate he couldn’t accomplish both, and Lewis struggled with a desire to let the latter go. Leave the past in the past and focus on the future. A normal future, married to Josephine, expanding his art, and making an honorable name for himself.

But his name was the issue. He could never make a fictitious name honorable.

He shivered as a cold gust of two images returned to him like ghosts haunting his soul: the image of his mother dying in his arms, and the image of his father hanging from a gallows.

Injustice demanded a price—from others, and from himself.

As did judgment.