The Journey of Josephine Cain (13 page)

In St. Joseph, they left the train and were met by Mr. Herb Hoxie, who led them to two waiting steamer ships, the
Colorado
and the
Denver
. The Rosenblatt Band joined them, which played with more ability and restraint than the brass band from Chicago.

As they boarded, Josephine heard Senator Wade’s wife say, “This is surprisingly delightful—and astonishing.”

“Why is that?” Josephine asked.

“To come a week’s journey out of New York and still be among people of wealth, refinement, and enterprise. The excursion even has its own newsletter.” She shook her head. “Who would have thought?”

Josephine nodded, yet the woman’s snobbery offended on two accounts. First, the guests aboard the train had not ventured far from its tracks, so their society was self-contained. And second, the woman seemed to imply that everyone who lived west of the large cities back home was ignorant and unworthy. From what Josephine could see, the people who had been courageous enough to leave what was known and tackle new lands—with no guarantees—owned attributes of far more import than wealth and refinement.

Nevertheless, they were on a new leg of their journey, a two-day trip on a steamboat, up the Missouri River toward Omaha.

She stood on the upper passenger deck of the boat. Lewis joined her. “Another adventure,” he said.

Josephine nodded as the paddle wheel on the side of the ship made
whoop-whoop
sounds. “I must admit I felt safer on the train.” She pointed down to the muddy river. The branches of fallen trees reached out of the
river like murky hands wanting to grab the boat and take it under. “This ship is barely in the water.”

“Because the water isn’t very deep,” Lewis said.

“It feels like we could tip over on a whim.”

He wrapped his arm around her waist. “Perhaps if we stay very still . . .”

She appreciated his levity—and his arm. “Then there are those fingers of sand that protrude into the river.”

“Sandbars.”

She didn’t care what they were called, only that they made her nervous. “I heard from one of the workers that hundreds of riverboats sink every year. It is not the branches you
see
, it is the ones you don’t see that are the problem.”

He whispered in her ear. “I’ll keep you safe. You can always depend on me.”

She leaned her head on his shoulder, wanting to believe him.

It was exhausting. There was no getting around it.

Five days on the train, then two days on the steamer paddle boat, which finally arrived safely in Omaha. But then a caravan of carriages and stagecoaches took them from the dock to the Union Pacific rail yard. There they boarded a very special excursion train, all dolled up like a belle at her first ball. There were two locomotives festooned with flags, followed by nine cars: a baggage and supply car, a refreshment car, a cooking car, four passenger coaches, the “Lincoln” car for Mr. Durant’s personal use, and finally, a magnificent directors’ car.

Josephine fell into a seat with Frieda beside her. “Now what?” she asked.

Frieda consulted the itinerary they’d been given. “Next stop is Columbus, Nebraska, where we’ll camp.”

“Camp?”

“Tents will be provided.”

What had she gotten herself into? “How I long for my own bed.”

“Nonsense,” Frieda said. “You can have your own bed for the rest of your life, but who gets the chance to do what we’re doing?” She pointed to the itinerary. “Who gets a chance to see a war dance performed by real Indians?”

That
got her attention. “War dance? Is that safe?”

Frieda shrugged. “It must be, or they wouldn’t do it.”

Josephine hoped so. She spotted Lewis making chitchat with Senator Hayes. “He is certainly enjoying himself.”

“Hmm.”

“What does
hmm
mean?”

“He’s taking great benefit from this trip.”

“So? Should he sit on his hands and not speak to anyone?”

“Of course not, but . . .” Frieda shook her head, looking at Lewis.

“I thought you liked him. Liked him for
me
. You have always stressed what a perfect gentleman he is.”

“So I have,” she said, but still sounded wary. “There’s just something
suspekt
about him, that’s all.”

“Define
suspekt.”

“It’s a word my husband used to use. Lewis says all the right things at all the right times. He’s kind to you—and me.” She smiled and touched Josephine’s hand. “I have to thank you for introducing me as a cousin, not a servant.”

Josephine had never considered the latter. “You are family. And my most trusted friend in the world.”

Frieda squeezed her hand. “You are a dear. But because we are so close, I bring up my doubts.”

Doubts? Now she had doubts about Lewis?

A waiter brought around a tray of teacakes, and all doubts were forgotten.

For now.

Hudson pulled the tent rope taut, tied it around a stake, then flexed his aching fingers. “That’s the last of them.”

“Finally,” Raleigh said. “I thought arranging for the excursionists was going to be easy work.”

“Different work.” Hudson looked out over the sea of tents they’d set up just past the station buildings. They covered several acres. A wonderful aroma wafted out of the large dining tent, igniting his hunger.

He took the last name tag from the pile and pinned it to the right of the tent opening:
Miss Cain & Mrs. Schultz
. “Cain. I wonder if she is a relation of the general’s.”

“At the moment I don’t care who she is. We’re done.”

And none too soon. A train’s whistle cut through the early evening, and they felt the ground rumble with its approach.

“I hope the Indians are ready,” Raleigh said, gathering their tools.

“Hiring Pawnee . . . only Durant would think of such a thing.”

“I just hope they cooperate.”

“And do only what they’ve been hired to do.”

“Amen to that,” Raleigh said. “Either way, it’s showtime.”

“Tents? We’re sleeping in tents?”

If Josephine heard that complaint one more time, she was going to scream. Yes, it was unconventional, and she had suffered her own apprehensions. But now, being out on the Nebraska plain, she surprised herself by feeling thrilled with the prospect. Ever since they’d left Omaha, she had been glued to the view of the Great Platte Valley. She was not
alone, as many exclaimed in wonder and admiration. But just as many had complained about the miles and miles of nature, pining for their cities and the comforts of home.

Now in Columbus, they had been instructed to find their tents and gather at the dining tent for food to rival that of eastern hotels.

Lewis stepped to the ground and extended his hand to Josephine and Frieda. “Watch your step,” he said, his smile charming. As they followed the surge toward the tents, he said to Josephine, “You seem content with the accommodations.”

She lifted her skirt to keep it above the dusty ground. “Surprisingly, I am. I cannot imagine seeing this land without having the chance to truly be out in the middle of it.”

“In the middle of it,” he said with a laugh. “We are that.”

A few men stood with lists that directed the guests to their tents. Lewis approached them, and Josephine watched as he seemed to grow perturbed by something. When he walked back to Josephine and Frieda, his head was shaking, his scowl deep. “You two are over there, to the right.”

“And you?”

“Apparently, I’m off with the men, sharing a tent with a Mr. Rosewood. I think I met him briefly. He’s a tradesman of some sort.”

Josephine gave him a measured look. “Are you satisfied with your pairing?”

“Why shouldn’t I be? I’m hardly equal to a congressman or railroad executive.” There was a pull in his voice. But he shrugged it off and patted her hand. “It’s fine.”

It was not fine.

All of Lewis’s efforts to hobnob with the rich and famous were apparently moot. Whoever was in charge of the tent assignments obviously considered him an underling. A nobody, even though he
had
been mentioned twice in the excursionist’s daily newsletter. The name tag on the tent could just as easily have said,
Man 1 and Man 2
.

Mr. Rosewood had already arrived and was stretched out on a cot with his hands behind his head. He did not rise when Lewis entered. “Mr. Rosewood, I presume?”

“Sam. Yup, that’s me. You’re Simmons?”

Lewis knew he should have offered his first name, but he didn’t. “Yes.”

Rosewood sat up, setting his feet on the ground. “You’re that fellow making the drawings, aren’t you?”

The artist creating the art
. “That’s right.”

“So you’re my competition.”

Lewis stared him. “Competition?”

Rosewood pointed to a stack of boxes. “I’m a photographer, you’re a sketcher.”

Suddenly Lewis placed Rosewood. He’d seen him taking a photograph of the steamboat before they left St. Joseph.

“You make any money sketching?” Rosewood asked.

Not when I’ve given them all away for free
. “Enough. And you?”

“More than enough. I have a studio in DC. I sell the photos to the subject, on the spot, or I send them back to the studio where I’m setting up a gallery. Plus, I expect an influx of income once the Union Pacific understands how important it is to get all this chronicled. I plan on making a killing on that.”

Lewis set his portfolio behind his cot. “You make that much?”

“I will.”

“But you can’t reproduce your photographs. It’s one and done. I can have my drawings made into engravings that can be printed over and over.”

“What’s worth more, a rare diamond or a river rock?”

It took Lewis a moment. “I beg your pardon?”

“That was rude. Sorry. There’s enough work for both of us. At least for now.”

But was there?

Just when Lewis finally seemed to be finding a market for his art, there was something newer? Better? He glanced at the man’s photography equipment. “Is it . . . difficult?”

“Not if you follow the science of it. Getting people to be still is the hardest part.”

Lewis sat on his cot and heard straw in the mattress. He ran a hand over a brown fur cover. Buffalo? He faced Rosewood, their knees almost touching. “Perhaps if we have time, you might show me how it’s done.” What would it hurt? His father had always stressed the need for a backup plan.

“I don’t need that kind of competitor.”

Maybe Rosewood wouldn’t have a choice. Lewis chose his words carefully. “How about an assistant?”

“Mmm. That’s possible.” Rosewood lay back on his cot, then rose up to his elbows. “I saw that pretty thing you’re traveling with. Is she your girl?”

“That’s the plan. She’s the daughter of General Cain, the man in charge of the crews.”

“Now there’s a match that should make your life easier.”

That was the goal.

He would marry Josephine, gain access to her money, then abandon her and break her heart. Hurting General Cain’s daughter would hurt the general. It would never equal Lewis’s pain, of course, but it would help.

But then there was his art, the thrill of creating something from nothing.

Could he achieve both goals? Or would he have to choose?