CHAPTER FIVE

Into the Land of the Red, White and Blue

The sky was still black when Josiah and Adam slipped from the Edwards home and made their way south through the silent streets of St. Joseph.  As they approached the outskirts of town, Josiah pointed toward a four-story brick structure a couple of blocks east of them.  “Patee House,” he whispered, “headquarters for the Pony Express.”  He gestured the opposite direction.  “That’s where you would have caught the train.  Well, you can’t see the depot from here, but it’s not far down that way.”

“Can’t see much,” Adam whispered back with a trace of humor.

Josiah chuckled softly.  “No, I guess not, but I know my way through St. Joe, son, even in the dark.  Just sorry the walk has to take so much longer than it would have if the train still connected here.”

Houses became fewer and further apart, until finally they reached the open countryside, fragrant with the scent of dew-dappled meadows.  “How is your father getting along?” Josiah asked, speaking in a more normal volume now that they were out of town.  “Your letter to Jamie indicated that he was taking his wife’s death very hard.”

“He was,” Adam admitted.  “I think he’s better now,” he added hesitantly.

“But you’re not sure?”

Adam frowned in thought.  “He’s better than he was, and he says he can handle things—the ranch, the boys.  I’m just not sure . . . maybe I shouldn’t be leaving . . . at least, not so soon.”

“Adam, Adam,” Josiah chided.  “You’re too young to carry all this weight on your shoulders.”

“There wasn’t anyone else,” Adam said gruffly.

“No, I suppose not,” the older man admitted with a compassionate gaze, “but if your father says he’s all right, then he probably is.  And, frankly, having responsibilities is the best medicine for what ails him.  I found that to be true when I lost Jamie’s mother.”

Adam stopped abruptly.  “You think I did him harm by carrying those responsibilities for him?”

Josiah placed his hand against the young man’s back and gently pushed him forward.  “No,” he replied as they continued walking.  “He probably needed your help in that first rush of grief, but if you’d stayed, given up your dreams to continue carrying responsibilities rightfully his . . .”

“I might have crippled him?”  At Josiah’s nod Adam pursed his lips in consideration.  If only it could be true that he wasn’t just being selfish in leaving home to pursue his dream, that he might actually be helping Pa by . . . well, by not helping him, by letting him stand alone.  It was a new idea and one that merited further thought.  Now, however, was neither the time for contemplation or further conversation, for a farmhouse appeared atop a low rise to their left.  Josiah turned up the path leading to it.

Adam remained in the yard while Josiah mounted the steps to the two-story frame farmhouse and rapped on the door.  A portly man, hitching suspenders over his bare chest, answered the door.  “Figured it might be you, Edwards.  So, today’s the day, is it?”  The farmer stepped out onto the porch and stared down at Adam.  “That the college boy?”

“That’s him,” Josiah said.  “Adam, may I present Ezra Whitcomb?  Ezra, Adam Cartwright.”

Whitcomb came down the steps and took the young man’s hand.  “Pleased to make your acquaintance, young fellow, brief as it’s like to be.”

Adam pumped the farmer’s hand.  “Yes, sir.  I can’t thank you enough for your help, sir.”

Whitcomb shrugged off the thanks and moved toward the barn.  “You sure he’s a college boy?” he asked over his shoulder.  “Got the grip of a working man.”

Josiah laughed.  “He knows the value of work—and books, as well.  That, my friend, makes for a well rounded man.”

“Reckon.”  Whitcomb opened the barn door and pointed to a black gelding in the first stall.  “Think you can slap a saddle on that one, boy?”

“Don’t blink,” Adam teased.

Whitcomb cackled.  “I’ll saddle the teacher’s, then.”  He winked at Adam.  “Not that he can’t; he’s just none too quick about it.”

“He’s quick at other things,” Adam returned, and Josiah smiled at his display of loyalty and smooth repartee.

Soon both horses were saddled.  “Take good care of ‘em,” the farmer said, resting an affectionate hand on each muzzle.

“You have my word,” Josiah promised.  Whitcomb also had his solemn promise to make good the loss if anything did happen to either horse, but he kept that to himself.  Adam was young, and he already had worries enough without applying his all-too-active conscience to that, as well.

The two travelers mounted and with a farewell wave to Mr. Whitcomb headed east.  Wanting to avoid the main road, they cut across wooded country.  “Good thing it’s Friday,” Josiah observed.  “Tomorrow, even this early, we’d likely run into farmers on their way to market.  Probably wouldn’t have met anyone on the main road today, but it’s best to stick to the shelter of the trees.  Anyone we did meet would be likely to take undue interest in these horses.  Besides, we’re saving a mile this way.”

“All to the good,” Adam agreed.

Intent on their purpose, they spoke little after that, and fortune favored them with an uneventful ride to the Little Platte.  “We’re crossing north of where the bridge did,” Josiah explained.  “I think the banks aren’t as steep here.”

“Should be easier fording, then,” Adam said.

True to expectation, the river was easy to ford at the point Josiah had chosen, its banks sloping gently down to the water.  Adam was glad he hadn’t changed to better clothes for the train journey, for his pant legs were wet from the knee down by the time he reached the eastern side of the Little Platte.  The two companions continued due east until they were just north of Stewartsville and then dipped slightly southeast.  As they forded another stream, Josiah said, “Smith’s Branch, where the other bridge was burned.  Not far now, son.”

Glad of that news, Adam nodded.  Soon they rode into the small town of Osborn and stabled the horses in the first livery they came to.

“Will they be safe here?” Adam whispered as he took his traveling bag from the saddle.

“Safe as anywhere,” Josiah said.  He motioned for the boy to be silent and follow him outside; he paused only long enough to pay the stable keeper.  Once they were alone on the street, he added, “I haven’t heard of any raids on Osborn, and I’ll trust that our luck will hold out long enough to get you on that train.”

“You don’t have to wait with me, sir,” Adam insisted.  “If it would be safer for you to return now . . .”

“Probably safer to wait, son.  I may well wait for the cover of darkness.”

Adam shook his head.  “I’m taking your whole day.”

Josiah shrugged.  “I’m out of work, remember?  I can spare a day to see the sights of another town.”

Adam grinned then, for there were obviously few sights to see in Osborn.  The only one he cared to see, however, was the train depot, and it soon came into view.  Agilely leaping onto the planked sidewalk outside the small red frame building, Adam at once headed inside.

Before he could approach the ticket window, however, Josiah snared his elbow and pulled him to a bench in the waiting area.  “Plenty of time,” the older man said.  “I want to go over the transfers with you.  There will be several, and you don’t want to miss a connection.”

“No, I don’t,” Adam agreed earnestly.  Josiah drew a sheet of paper from his vest pocket, and leaning forward, Adam studied it and listened intently as his former teacher instructed him on which trains to take to reach his ultimate destination.

“First, be sure you get off this train at Palmyra,” Josiah directed.  “It goes all the way to Hannibal, but you’ll miss your connection to Chicago if you ride to the end of the line.  You should have about an hour between trains there, so get yourself some supper and stretch your limbs.”  He patted Adam’s knee in sympathy for the stiffness it was set to endure.  “Just a short hop on the next line,” he continued.  “The Quincy and Palmyra will take you to the Mississippi River.  You’ll ferry over to Quincy, where you’ll catch the Chicago, Burlington and Quincy Railroad, and for the love of mercy and your hope of doing well on your exams, take a berth in the sleeping car for the night.  It’s worth every penny, and I’m sure your father would consider that money well spent.”

Adam nodded.  “Yes, sir, he would, and I will definitely follow that advice.”

“In Chicago you’ll transfer to the Pittsburgh, Ft. Wayne and Chicago line, which will connect with the Pennsylvania Railroad and take you into Philadelphia.”

“Another overnight trip?” Adam queried.

Josiah nodded.  “Get a berth,” he reiterated.

Adam grinned.  “Oh, yeah.  I’m going to take advantage of every chance I get to sleep, believe me, sir.”

Josiah rubbed the young man’s shoulders.  “You should, and don’t skimp on food, either.  It’s hard to grab a decent meal with trains taking only twenty minutes for meal stops, but snatch what you can.”  He put his hand in his pocket and drew out a half eagle.

“Oh, no, sir,” Adam remonstrated, gesturing his rejection of the offer.  “I have enough.”

Josiah smiled.  “Give this to Jamie, please, my boy.  Tell him I said to treat both of you to a good, nourishing supper the night before your exams, and he can keep what’s left over for sundry expenses.  I’m sure there’ll be plenty of those!”

Adam accepted the five-dollar gold piece then.  “Thank you, sir; I’ll see he gets it.  I suppose there’s another change in Philadelphia?”

“I’m afraid so,” Josiah chuckled.  “I know it’s a lot to remember, so I’ll leave you this list as a reminder.  You’ll be getting into Philadelphia quite late, and the train on the New Jersey Railroad doesn’t leave until the next morning, so take a hotel room for the night—you do have enough?”

“Plenty,” Adam assured him.  “Pa was generous.”

“Fine.  Then stay in West Philadelphia, if you can; that will put you close to the depot.  Then it’s about three and a half hours to Jersey City, where you can connect with the New York and New Haven Railroad.”

Adam almost beamed.  “That’s the name I’ve been waiting to hear!”

Josiah laughed outright.  “And you’ll be even more thrilled when the conductor announces its arrival in New Haven a few hours later.  You understand all the changes you need to make?”  At Adam’s nod he folded the paper, handed it to the young man and stood up.  “Let’s get your ticket then.”

When that transaction was complete, a little time still remained until the hour of departure.  As they sat on the platform outside, Josiah shook his head with regret.  “I had hoped you could spend your vacations here with Jamie and me, since you won’t have time to return home.  Now, I don’t know if I can make that offer.  Not sure I want either of you coming back to this hotbed of contention, and with no means for my own support, I’d have little to share.”

“Please don’t concern yourself, sir,” Adam said.  “Perhaps it will be you coming to us, instead.”

“If I do relocate, of course, I might still have a home to offer you and Jamie between terms.”  He nodded pensively.  “It’s something to think about.”

“Yes, sir, do think about it,” Adam urged.  “If I can’t go home to Nevada—and I can’t—I’d cherish spending time with you.”

“Well, we’ll see,” Josiah replied ambivalently.  “Now, then, my boy, let’s discuss the matter of time difference in the various stops you’ll make.”  Teacher and student once more, two heads bent together for the transfer of vital information.

About eight that morning a whistle sounded down the track, and soon the train pulled into the depot.  After a final hearty embrace Josiah handed Adam a package wrapped in brown paper and tied with twine.  “Just some sandwiches to stave off starvation.”  He drew a shiny red orb from his pocket.  “And here’s an apple.  Sorry it isn’t more, but food’s been in somewhat short supply in St. Joe of late.”

Adam pushed both offerings away.  “Then I shouldn’t take it, sir.”

Josiah again pressed the food on him.  “Nonsense.  I know the appetite of a growing boy.  You need this more than I, and this situation is bound to ease up soon.  If it doesn’t, I’ll either cross over into Kansas or head east, toward you and Jamie.”

“Make it east,” Adam pleaded as he accepted the lunch.  “They were talking of closing down the ferry when I crossed over, and if you go to Kansas we may not see you for the duration.”

“East it is,” Josiah promised.  He looked down for a moment and then raised his head to gaze into Adam’s eyes.  “Look after my boy,” he requested again, as he had the previous night.  “Don’t let him overdo—and both of you stay out of political discussions, as much as you’re able.  Hopefully, the strife won’t reach the hallowed halls of Yale, but take care, nonetheless.”

“I will—of myself and of Jamie,” Adam vowed.

Josiah clapped him on the back.  “Better get aboard.  Don’t want them leaving without you!”

One final clasp of hands and Adam ran for the passenger car.  He settled quickly into a window seat, though most of the few passengers boarding here avoided them.  Fear of stray bullets from bushwhackers, Adam supposed, but he preferred to keep a close lookout for danger.  A bullet didn’t have much further to travel to an aisle seat, anyway, and this way he’d have a better chance of seeing suspicious riders coming and time to get his own handgun out.

He had intended to study on the train, and the monotony of the prairie terrain invited attention to his books, but he felt more secure watching out the window.  Although he’d traveled by train before, the jaunt from Folsom to Sacramento was too short to give a true feel for how the rails could eat up miles.  He’d had some of that sensation on the stagecoach, but it was intensified here, as town after town slipped past the window—Cameron with its two linking railroads south; Kidder; Hamilton, where a stage line connected; Breckenridge—all unknown to Adam when he lived in St. Joseph, all owing either their birth or their burgeoning population to the coming of the railroad.  Wonder if the railroad will ever reach Nevada, he mused as he recalled talk of linking the two coasts by rail.  Sure would make it easier to get home, if they hurry it along, but would home look like home with all those folks pouring in?  He smiled at his foolishness.  Even if the dream of a transcontinental railroad ever did come to pass, most folks except miners would probably bypass dry Nevada for the sunnier climes of California.  Still, it was home to him, and it pleased him to think of it as changeless.

Passing through Greggs, the train pulled into Utica, a town Adam did have vague memories of.  Like most of the hamlets along the track, it wasn’t large, but just outside town was an encampment of Union soldiers, assigned to protect the rail line.  Their presence was comforting, as was the occasional glimpse of cavalry he spotted as the train rolled on.  About three miles beyond that station, the train crossed the Grand River, and the next town, Chillicothe, was a larger one.  Adam definitely remembered it.  He, Pa and Inger had stopped here to repair a cracked axle, and he’d had a grand time chasing the pigs and chickens that ran loose down the dirt streets until Pa made him stop.  He stood up to stretch his legs and stepped out onto the platform to take a gander.  More soldiers than pigs in the streets this time, though he did spot a few porkers and grinned in fond remembrance of his boyhood romp.  From the platform he could see a couple of dry goods stores, a drug store, a hotel and a restaurant, the latter making him hungry enough on his return to nibble on the apple Josiah had given him.

Rattling through Botts, the train crossed a creek a local resident called Locust over yet another trestle bridge.  Plenty of targets for the rebels on this line, Adam mused. No wonder the army patrols it so regularly.  Can’t be everywhere, though.  He couldn’t help wondering how many bridges lay between him and the end of the line and whether they’d all be intact.  One more lost might well put reaching his destination in time beyond hope.  Don’t imagine the worst, he chided himself.  He and Pa would never have started west, never have found the dream waiting there, if they’d counted up all the things that could go wrong.  Dreams were strong things; if need be, they could conquer challenges.  All I need is determination, he concluded, and determination I have.

Passing Laclede, where another stage line connected, the train arrived in Brookfield, division headquarters, with a round house and machine shops for maintenance of the engines.  Now a little more than halfway to Palmyra, Adam took out his package of sandwiches and ate as the train rumbled through another series of small towns, crossing two branches of the Chariton River on the way—trestles thankfully solid.  He finally became relaxed enough by the presence of soldiers all along the line that he did pull out his Greek textbook to while away the remaining hours of the afternoon in study.  Whether from residual nerves or a desire to see the passing scenery, however, he frequently looked up from the book to peer out the window.

Though brilliant yellow flowers dotted the tall, waving grasses, the passing scenery was somewhat monotonous.   Prairie stretched flat on both sides of the cars, broken only by a line of timber less than a mile away in either direction.  On one of his glances up from his book, Adam noticed a group of riders back near the trees.  Though he couldn’t see them clearly enough to spot their blue uniforms, he assumed they were more soldiers on patrol and lowered his eyes again.  His head immediately jerked up as the speed and direction of those riders belatedly registered.  They were coming straight at the train—at a gallop.  No soldier would do that unless there were trouble.

At that same moment another male passenger, equally vigilant and more attuned to the dangers of this area, yelled sharply, “Raiders comin’!  Everybody down!”

Amid the screams of women, Adam dropped to the floor between the rows of seats, grabbed his carpetbag and unlatched it quickly.  Grasping the walnut grip of his Colt Army revolver, he rose cautiously.  A quick glance to either side revealed a trio of other men positioned at windows all along that side of the car.  Martial law or no martial law, the men of Missouri were evidently prepared to defend their persons and their property.

At the window directly to Adam’s left, a tow-headed lad of eight or nine bobbed up to peek out the window at the bad men.  “Get down,” Adam hissed.  The boy ignored him, continuing to stare, wide-eyed with excitement, at the oncoming raiders.  When the first shot pinged against the outside of the car, Adam reached under the seat, grabbed the kid by the ankles and yanked him down.  “Now stay there!” he hollered over the kid’s wail of protest.

Coming up again, Adam pointed his gun out the window and fired repeatedly, as did defenders all up and down the train.  He saw one of the assailants grasp his shoulder and thought it was his shot that had winged the man, but couldn’t be sure.  The exchange of gunfire was brisk, but brief, as the raiders responded to the armed resistance by hightailing it back to the trees.  As he watched them retreat, Adam saw a line of bluecoats cut across the prairie from the east to intercept them, and again the air was struck with the staccato of gunfire.  Up and down the train shouts of triumph joined the martial percussion.

Drained, Adam sank down in his seat and exhaled gustily.  As he became aware of someone standing next to him, he looked up and saw a middle-aged woman tightly gripping that reckless little towhead by the elbow.  “Tell the man thank you, Beau, for savin’ your disobedient hide.”

“I just wanted to see,” Beau whined.  “Weren’t no real danger.”  A still tighter squeeze on his elbow made him wince.  “Thank you, mister,” he gasped.

“You’re welcome,” Adam said, “but the next time you’re told to get down, you get down and stay down, hear?”

Rubbing his freed elbow, Beau mumbled a monotone “Yes, sir,” but as he skittered down the aisle, he paused to turn back and stick his tongue out at Adam.

Adam grinned, for a moment seeing a certain little brother in that boy’s behavior.  “That one keeps you hopping, I bet,” he said to the boy’s mother.

She smiled.  “Now, you’re too young to have experience handlin’ wild younguns, but you guessed right.  He’s a handful.”

“No guesswork involved,” Adam chuckled.  In response to her quizzically cocked head, he explained, “Little brothers . . . one of whom is every bit as wild as your boy at half his age.”

“Oh, I see!  Yes, that would explain your quick response to Beau’s peril.”  She offered Adam her hand.  “Again, sir, and with more sincerity than he showed, I offer you my thanks.”

Adam shook her hand.  “It was nothing, ma’am, but you’re entirely welcome.”

The stop at Shelbina, the next station, lasted longer than usual, as the conductor reported the incident between there and Clarence.  The report, in fact, took longer than the incident itself, and Adam chafed at the delay.  He had connections to make!  Within minutes, however, the train was again rolling east, through Lakenan and a couple of miles further across the Salt River.  Hunnewell and Monroe flew past, and then the train curved northeast, toward Ely and Caldwell and finally into Palmyra itself, shortly after four o’clock that afternoon.

Hungry as he was, Adam was tempted to forego supper, since he now had less than an hour until the departure of the Quincy and Palmyra short line.  He spotted a lunch counter attached to the depot, however, and purchased a couple of ham sandwiches and a hard-boiled egg to take with him.  He wolfed down one sandwich and the egg while waiting for the train and resolved to eat the other more leisurely once he was aboard, rolling toward the great Father of Waters.

* * * * *

            Adam leaned heavily on the rail at the stern of the Emma, watching the sinking sun tint the western horizon a brilliant burnt orange.  The miles, the stress of making connections, the fear of missing or failing his exams in New Haven were catching up with him.  So far, though, everything was going according to plan.  The minor setbacks—if disasters like the burning of bridges or armed marauders attacking the train could be called minor—had not defeated his purpose, and the journey should be easier from this point on.  Besides, he was young, young enough that the peaceful golden-amber reflection on the water was enough to refresh his flagging spirits.  The Mississippi was wide, but he’d soon be across it and then he could really rest.

The steamboat docked on the eastern shore, and Adam huffed as he climbed a hundred and twenty-five feet up a limestone bluff to reach the town of Quincy.  He dropped his carpetbag at the top and bent over, clasping his knees, as he gasped for breath.  Then, still fearful of missing a connection, he snatched up the bag and bounded past sawmills, flour mills and pork-packing plants on the edge of town and hurried through the brick business district to the depot of the Chicago, Burlington and Quincy.   Inside, he purchased his ticket, including the extra twenty-five cents for an upper berth, and boarded promptly when the conductor called, “All aboard.”  Thankfully, the berths had already been prepared, and without bothering to remove his clothing, Adam climbed into the top of three berths, putting his belongings into the green storage net and pulling the green curtains closed.

The cane-bottomed planks were miserably hard, even with the bedding provided by the railroad.  That and the snores of a score of men all through the car made it difficult for Adam to get to sleep.  Once he did, however, the exhausted young man slept like a baby.  He woke only once, when a loud thud, followed by louder curses, told him that some unfortunate fellow passenger had fallen out of bed.  Sparing a hope that the man had not fallen from the top tier, a groggy Adam rolled over and went back to sleep.

He woke around 5:30 the next morning, quite ready to vacate the plank bed and its thin mattress.  After splashing his face with water from a large stone jar at the end of the sleeping car, he took a seat in the day car just as the train pulled into a large station.

The conductor called out, “Aurora,” as he made his way down the aisle, and when he passed by, Adam inquired, “How long to Chicago, sir?”

“Hour and a half, son,” the conductor responded cordially.

Adam thanked him and turned to look out the window.  Aurora was a large town, with a buff limestone roundhouse and all the shops needed to keep a railroad moving.  While it probably could also provide an eating station as good as any, he elected to delay his breakfast until he reached Chicago.  According to the timetable he’d picked up at the depot in Quincy, he would have an hour between trains, enough time for a more leisurely meal.

No sooner had the train pulled out of Aurora, though, than Adam’s stomach began protesting its emptiness.  To silence it and to get his mind off the challenge of making the upcoming connection, he took out his Greek text and pored over it to the rattling accompaniment of wheels rotating on iron tracks.

“You might want to put that away,” his seatmate, a well-groomed man in his mid-forties, suggested some time later.  “Not far to Chicago now, and since that’s your destination, you’ll want to get your things together.”

Adam closed the book and thanked the man.  “Chicago isn’t my final destination, though.  I’m going straight on to the east coast.”

“Oh, too bad,” the man said pleasantly.  “Chicago’s quite a place to see, better’n 112,000 folks here, according to the last census, where thirty years ago there weren’t more than a hundred.”

“Is Chicago your home, sir?” Adam inquired politely.

The man beamed with pride.  “Shows, does it?  Yes, son, it’s my home, and you won’t find a place more on the grow than Chicago.  Got its problems, like any booming city, but the know-how to solve ‘em, too.  Like the street level, for instance.  Town was first built on swampy ground just a few feet above lake level.  That made for all kinds of problems, so a fellow named George Pullman and some others figured out a way to jack the buildings up some four to seven feet and build new foundations under ‘em, without even asking the occupants to move out.  Quite an engineering feat, that.”

“Sounds like it.”  Adam’s interest was evident, so while he put his book into his carpetbag and fastened the latch, the man amplified on the subject a little.  There was no time for much discussion, however, for the train pulled into the grand terminal at Chicago, and all the passengers gathered their belongings and crowded into the aisles.

Adam stepped off the train and abruptly stopped to gape, open-mouthed at the huge, multi-tracked station.

“Get out of the way, boy!” a man behind him demanded.

Adam apologized and moved aside a few steps.  He continued to stare up and down the tracks, wondering which would hold the train for the next leg of his journey.

“You need somethin’, suh?” a thick voice drawled.

Adam turned and saw a black porter.  “I don’t know where to go,” he admitted.  “I mean, the ticket office first, I guess, but . . . so many tracks . . . I . . .”

White teeth gleamed in the coal-black face as the porter pointed toward the head of the train.  “Just follow dem other passengers, suh.  Dat be the way to de ticket office.  Dey tell you der which track t’ go to.”

Adam smiled.  “Of course.  Thank you.”  He hesitated, unsure of whether a tip was appropriate, and then dug into his pocket.

“No, suh, no need,” the porter, who recognized signs of financial need when he saw them, said.  “Not for dat little mite of advice.  Just follow ‘long with dem others and you be fixed fine right soon.”

The noise was deafening as another train pulled in on the track next to the one housing the train from Quincy, so Adam merely nodded his thanks again and headed in the direction the porter had indicated.  He took his place in line and fretted at how long it took him to reach its head and purchase his ticket.

“Do you have baggage to check?” the clerk behind the wooden grill asked perfunctorily.

“Just this bag,” Adam said.  “I’ve been keeping it with me.”  He did not, of course, tell the clerk that he’d wanted to keep his gun handy, even when he boarded at Quincy.  In that town, directly across the river from the seceded state of Mississippi, he’d just felt more comfortable having it with him.  Now that he was further north, he supposed, there was no real need for that type of precaution.

“Your choice, sir,” the clerk said, somewhat impatiently.  “If you wish to be spared the inconvenience, I can check it for you.”

“I’ll keep it,” Adam decided.  The inconvenience had been slight, and this way he had his books with him, whenever he wanted them.

He verified the track number and exact time of departure with the clerk and, pulling out his pocket watch, noted that its time did not match that of any of the large clocks hanging over the arched entrance to the terminal.  Not surprising, since each town or city determined its own time in accordance with the sun, as Josiah had taught him that morning.  He didn’t want to miss his train, so he set his watch to Pittsburgh time, the point of origin for the train he wanted to catch.  According to the clocks, that was thirty-one minutes later than Chicago time, but his own watch was further off than that.  He’d last coordinated it in Quincy, so he had to move the hands forward better than forty minutes.

Stepping outside the station, a sense of release surged through him.  At first, he couldn’t identify its origin; then he smiled as his eyes swept the street both ways.  Building after building either displayed the Stars and Stripes or was draped in red, white and blue bunting.  That was something he hadn’t seen in Missouri, where even those loyal to the Federal Government had seemed afraid to declare their allegiance.  Here there were no divided loyalties, and people walked the streets without fear.  For the first time since crossing the Missouri River, Adam felt truly safe, and with a new spring in his step, he continued down the street in search of something to eat.

He now had only half an hour until departure time, so he ate at the first eatery he came across, only a block from the station.  He found the food acceptable, if not sumptuous, and forced himself to eat slowly.  Of necessity, he’d rushed through virtually every meal for two and a half weeks now, and the habit was hard to break.  He arrived back at the terminal with a few minutes to spare, so he bought a copy of the Chicago Tribune at the newsstand inside the depot and sat down in the waiting room.

As he scanned the front page, the most important news appeared to be the reported death of Jefferson Davis, President of the Confederate States of America.  Evidently, he had been seriously ill, and flags in the Confederacy were now flying at half mast after his passing.  Though he couldn’t rejoice in any man’s death, Adam exhaled with relief at the news.  Perhaps it presaged a quicker end to the war.  Having seen the ravages of the struggle in St. Joseph and the terror assaulting ordinary citizens on the train, he could only hope that without Davis to guide them, the Confederacy would quickly return to the Union.  Maybe that was wishful thinking, but the editorial he read seemed to express similar hope.

Before he could finish the front page, however, the call to board resounded through the waiting room, and Adam, along with scores of others, rose and hurried to the designated track for the Pittsburgh, Fort Wayne and Chicago Railroad.  He found an open window seat and hurried to occupy it, news of the day temporarily forgotten.  The scenery, as the train skirted the south shore of Lake Michigan, was beautiful, almost ocean-like in its aspect.  Mounded sand hills lined the shore, and waves rolled repeatedly into them, not as wild and majestic as on the Pacific Coast, but striking nonetheless.  As far as eye could see, steamboats and sailing ships skimmed the waters, bustling passengers and cargo across the Great Lake.  Lake Michigan was grand, indeed, and Adam exulted in the opportunity to see it.  To him, however, nothing could compare with the pristine and pine-bordered sapphire jewel that graced the Ponderosa.

The train crossed a bridge over the south branch of the Chicago River, and Adam noticed that the water ran away from the lake, not toward it.  Like the Truckee River back home, flowing away from Lake Tahoe.  Adam grinned.  The scenery here was nothing like home, but he couldn’t seem to get his mind away from there.  Wonder what they’re doing?  Roundup time, so I guess that’s what Pa’s doing.  Hoss has school, of course, and Little Joe . . . Pa must have left him with the Thomases.  Boy, that’ll be hard on the little fellow so soon after . . .

Uncomfortable with the knot swelling up in his throat, Adam grabbed the newspaper and began reading again.  The President had declared another day for fasting and prayer.  Adam supposed he’d be doing plenty of praying if he entered Yale—chapel every morning, he’d been told—but he couldn’t face the thought of fasting right now.  After all the hurried meals he’d endured, all he wanted was one to just sit and linger over.  Time enough to consider a prayerful fast once that need had been met!

He scanned the news from Missouri next and shook his head at what he considered the stupidity of the law of the land—the Fugitive Slave Law, to be specific.  A correspondent from St. Louis reported that three runaway slaves were being held there and would be turned over to their owners as soon as the latter had provided proof of their loyalty to the Union.  Being a staunch Union supporter didn’t turn a wrong into a right, did it?  Bet it doesn’t much matter to those slaves which side their so-called master comes down on.  The burning of the bridges on the Hannibal and St. Joseph Railroad was still news, but the only information he hadn’t read earlier was a list of names of the victims.  Since he no longer knew anyone in Missouri except Josiah Edwards, he barely scanned that.

Gazing out the window, Adam marveled again at the speed with which towns passed, though he had to admit that it would be greater still if the train didn’t stop at so many of them.  When he spotted the brickyards just west of Hobart, for instance, the train had traveled only a single mile since its last stop at Liverpool.  Stations that close together were rare, thank goodness; most of them were four or five miles apart, a few even more.  Adam welcomed the longer jaunts through fertile countryside, not only for the serenity of the scene, but also for the sense of moving faster toward his goal.

It was well past noon, and the train still hadn’t pulled into Fort Wayne, the refreshment stop, so Adam bought an apple and a small bag of walnuts from the boy working the aisles.  “Want somethin’ to read, mister?” the boy, who appeared to be about ten, suggested as he pocketed the coins Adam had handed him.  “I got the latest papers out of Philadelphia, Chicago and New York and the Police Gazette and Harper’s Weekly and Frank Leslie’s, too.  And the best dime novels, if you be a literary gent.  Words to suit all tastes, just like me fruits and candies!”  He whipped out an orange paperback.  “Here’s the latest from Beadle’s, sir: King Barnaby; or, The Maidens of the Forest. A Romance of the Mickmacks,” he read from the cover.  With a scowl he added, “Now, I know romance may not sound like a fittin’ subject for a gent, but this un’s about Indians and such, up in Canada, and bein’ a Beadle’s, it’s chock full o’ action.”

Adam chuckled, amused by the youngster’s earnest face.  “You’re a real connoisseur, I see.”  Seeing the boy’s bewilderment, he amended his word choice.  “Read them all, do you?”

“Oh, yes, sir!” the boy replied enthusiastically.  “Beadle’s is prime.  Can’t go wrong with this un, sir, at only ten cents.”  He held the latest issue temptingly beneath Adam’s nose.

Smiling, Adam shook his head.  “You’re quite the salesman, but I’ll just have fruit and nuts this time.”

The boy grinned.  “Well, I’ll be back down the aisle in about an hour, if you change your mind.  Nothin’ like a good book to pass away the miles, you know.”

“Ah, but I have one,” Adam said, lifting his Greek text.

One look at the title was enough to make the little lad scrunch up his nose, shake his head at the peculiar taste of some folks and hustle down the aisle toward a likelier prospect for his wares.

A couple of stations ahead of Fort Wayne, the conductor moved through the train, taking a count of those who wished to eat there.  “Specialty of the house is beefsteak,” the conductor announced.  “How many in this car?”

Several hands were raised, Adam’s among them.  With the conductor telegraphing ahead to the depot restaurant the number to expect, the food would be ready when they arrived, so the mere twenty minutes afforded for a meal would be sufficient.  At least, that’s the way it was supposed to work.  When Adam, along with other passengers, rushed into the restaurant, however, the plates weren’t ready, and seven minutes were wasted, just sitting at the counter.  When his dinner was plunked in front of him, he went to work at once, sawing through the steak, a challenge considering its toughness.  Somehow, Adam choked down most of the steak, potatoes and a dish of custard in the thirteen minutes remaining before he had to board the train once more.

When the conductor came down the aisle to take numbers for supper, Adam decided to pass.  The hour was late, and he didn’t want to try to sleep with something as heavy as that greasy beefsteak roiling in his stomach.  Most refreshment stops also had a counter where he could buy a sandwich, and if Crestline did not, he’d just make out on whatever the diligent train boy had to offer on his hourly rounds.

At Crestline, the midway point between Chicago and Pittsburgh, he found the usual ham sandwiches, hard-boiled eggs and crisp sugar cookies—plenty to make a meal on.  After purchasing what he desired, Adam used the remaining time to look at the city, at least what he could see of it from the depot platform.  Crestline, lying in a flat, almost swampy terrain with large woods close by, was a division terminal, so although the depot itself was only frame, there was a full-circle brick roundhouse to maintain the trains, along with car shops, a tin shop and boiler shop, as well as machine and blacksmith shops.

Adam yawned.  Crestline might be an interesting place to explore, if he had the time . . . or the energy.  Right now, nothing sounded quite as interesting as getting back on the train, eating his light supper and heading for a berth as soon as it was ready.  When he crawled into bed for the night, once again exhaustion made a feather mattress of the hard slab on which he slept.

~ ~ Notes ~ ~

Soldiers of the 2^nd Kansas were attacked at Shelbina the night before Adam’s passage through there on the train.

The steamboat Emma actually plied the waters of the Mississippi between Quincy and West Quincy around the time of Adam’s trip.

The reports of Jefferson Davis’s death, though confirmed, were, of course, false.  He lived to guide the Confederacy throughout the Civil War.

An account of the Platte River Bridge disaster, as well as the other news items Adam read in Chicago can be found in online copies of the New York Times for September 7, 1861.  That the Chicago paper covered the same news is conjecture.