To Wager Her Heart Read online

  “Then we’d better find a restaurant fast.”

  They decided on a small Italian restaurant a few streets over, a quiet and out-of-the-way place. Sometime into their meal, as she shared with him all the things she’d wished she could have shared with him since she’d been gone, Alexandra noticed him smiling at her from across the table.

  “What?” she asked, dabbing the corners of her mouth just in case.

  He looked at her plate—still laden with spaghetti and meatballs. Then at his, which was completely empty.

  She winced. “I’m talking too much.”

  “Not at all. I’m enjoying hearing all about the tour. But I also don’t want you to go back to your hotel hungry.”

  “So now it’s your turn.” She picked up her fork. “Tell me what’s happening with your railroad projects. Oh! And about the meeting with the parishioner. The one Mr. Bliss arranged. You said you were able to speak with her.”

  A shadow passed over his face. “Yes, I was. She passed away a couple of days after our meeting.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that. Was she able to tell you anything about what caused the accident?”

  He hesitated, then shook his head. “Not about the accident, no. But she told me what happened to her right after.”

  A pained expression came over his face, and although Alexandra sensed he wanted to tell her about it, she found she didn’t want to hear it. She’d already lived that experience a thousand times over.

  The server brought the check, and she seized the moment. “You know, it is getting late. Perhaps we should start back to the hotel. You said you have an early train.”

  He held her gaze, then nodded. “Yes, perhaps that would be best.”

  Sy awakened early the next morning, got ready, packed, and walked the short distance to the hotel where the Fisk group was staying. He’d invited Alexandra to join him for breakfast this morning, with the goal of telling her what he had failed to share with her last night. Although he honestly hadn’t tried that hard.

  He stopped at a newsstand on the corner and bought a paper for the train. The older man behind the counter nodded his way as he took his nickel, heavy in conversation with another customer. Sy slid the newspaper into his briefcase and walked on.

  The dining room in the hotel was small, but it was early yet, so only a couple of the tables were occupied. He chose a table in the corner where their conversation would be more private.

  “Coffee, sir?”

  “Yes, please.”

  Seeing he had a few minutes before Alexandra was supposed to come down, he pulled the newspaper from his briefcase and opened it to the front page. He read the headline and his gut knotted tight.

  Chapter

  THIRTY

  ASHTABULA TRAIN DISASTER CLAIMS 92 LIVES

  Swallowing hard, Sy stared at the headline and—somehow, deep inside him—knew what he feared was true. His gaze devoured the text, skimming for details. And for the name he prayed not to see.

  Yesterday, the outbound Pacific Express from Ashtabula, Ohio, comprising two locomotives and eleven railcars, was buffeted by high winds as it pushed its way across the Ashtabula Bridge. The lead locomotive cleared the bridge just as the undergirding of the trestle snapped beneath the weight. The bridge gave way, sending one locomotive and eleven carriages crashing into the ravine seventy-six feet below. Before the wooden cars slammed into the bottom, witnesses say they were already aflame, set afire by kerosene heaters . . .

  Sy closed his eyes, a terrible sense of having lived this moment before passing through him. He saw flames devouring passenger cars like kindling and could hear the raspy, fragile voice of Miss Riley Glenn.

  Initial reports from investigators, still pending confirmation, claim that the bridge, designed by Amasa Stone, the railroad company president, had been improperly designed and inadequately inspected. Among the dead are Ashtabula resident and beloved hymn composer—

  Sy’s lungs emptied.

  —Philip Paul Bliss and his wife. Witnesses report that Mr. Bliss initially escaped the wreckage, but returned to the consuming conflagration to extricate his wife. The Blisses are survived by their two young sons, George and Philip Paul, ages four and one, respectively, who were initially thought to have been with their parents on the train. Ninety-two of the 159 passengers are believed to have perished in the crash.

  The reporter then listed the names of the known deceased, but Sy couldn’t read them. He could barely breathe.

  “Sy?”

  He didn’t look up. Alexandra said his name again.

  He wiped his eyes and lifted his gaze to see her standing by the table, her expression stricken.

  “Sy, what’s wrong?”

  Wishing he could spare her, and knowing what this would do to her, he stood and pulled her to him and whispered into her ear. And felt her tense.

  “No,” she said in a rush, shaking her head. She pulled away and, eyes pleading, sought his gaze. “What happened?”

  He handed her the newspaper and she read, the paper trembling in her grip. Then for the longest time she stared at the print, tears trailing down her cheeks. Finally she looked up.

  “He went back for her,” she whispered in a broken voice.

  “Yes,” was all he could manage. Then conviction hit him square in the chest, and he took a sharp breath. “There’s something I need to tell you, Alexandra. About my meeting with Miss Glenn.”

  Same as last night, a look came into her eyes that said she didn’t want to hear it. He took the newspaper from her, pulled out a chair, and she sat, back ramrod straight, hands clenched in her lap. He sat beside her.

  “Miss Glenn was riding in the second freedmen’s car that day. She told me that following the crash her leg was pinned beneath something.” He paused, the tightness in his throat making it difficult to speak. “She couldn’t move. She said there was a man she remembered having seen earlier, riding in the same car.”

  Alexandra drew in a ragged breath.

  “He managed to crawl over to her and free her . . . so that she could get out. She asked me if I knew if anyone riding in that same passenger car had survived. She wanted to know because she wanted to thank the man for saving her life.” He shook his head. “I told her I had no way of knowing. Then she smiled and said that before that day . . . she’d never seen a white man traveling in a freedmen’s car before.”

  A strangled sob rose in her throat, and Alexandra leaned forward, her shoulders shaking. Sy knelt beside her chair and held her as she wept.

  That night, following a more somber but well-attended concert, Alexandra walked with Sy back to the hotel. With Mr. White and the singers walking some yards ahead, she reached over and tucked her hand into the crook of Sy’s arm.

  “Thank you for staying,” she said softly.

  He looked over, then covered her hand on his arm. “I needed to stay, Alexandra.”

  She nodded, hearing what he wasn’t saying. He’d been quiet all day. Understandably. And no matter how she tried not to, she kept thinking about that bridge giving way.

  When they entered the lobby, Mr. White was waiting.

  “We’re meeting in the dining room. Would you two please join us?”

  Alexandra sneaked Sy an apologetic look, but he shook his head as if to say, It’s all right.

  It was late and the dining room was empty. Two oil lamps provided the only light in the room. Mr. White had already delivered a beautiful tribute to Philip Paul Bliss in his remarks following the concert, having met the man at a prayer meeting some years before. So she knew that couldn’t be what this was about.

  “Dearest friends,” Mr. White began when everyone had been seated. “It pains me to say it, but we once again find ourselves in the same situation as so many times before. The auditorium tonight was nearly full, and yet the contributions totaled only eighteen dollars.”

  The air seemed to evaporate from the room. Alexandra felt a weight in her chest even as Isaac Dickerson leaned forward, head
in his hands. Several of the others bowed their heads. She glanced beside her, but Sy didn’t look over.

  “As you are aware,” White continued, “we are running very low on funds. I want you to know that I am going to seek God’s face tonight. I will not sleep. I will stay awake and pray and ask for his guidance. For his intervention. For with all my heart, I know you, dear singers, are Fisk’s salvation. My belief in that has not—and will not—waver. I only ask that before retiring to your beds, you pray for me to hear the Lord’s voice clearly. I do not ask you to join me in this night of prayer. In fact, I implore you not to. You need your rest in order to minister to those who need to hear your songs.”

  Alexandra didn’t wait for her bed, but started praying right then.

  “Also, as I shared with you last evening, we have three cities a good ways south from here that have requested concerts. They have stated with great confidence that we will be well received and that the contributions will be most generous. It will take the remainder of our funds to get there. But again, I believe this direction is from the Lord.”

  Alexandra’s prayer trailed off. She still thought it a risky decision to travel that far with so little money. And yet, if Mr. White felt such conviction . . .

  “Would you bow your heads with me,” he said softly, “and let us silently thank the Lord for the richness of his blessings, the chiefest of those being his Son?”

  Alexandra bowed her head and saw Sy do likewise. Moments passed, the only sound the ticktock of a clock somewhere behind them. Then the soft intake of breath.

  “Steal away,” came a feather-soft voice, the vibrato powerful even in a whisper. “Steal away . . .”

  Maggie Porter, Alexandra knew without even looking. She knew each of these singers’ voices as well as she knew her own. But she’d never heard this song.

  “Steal away . . . to Jesus.”

  Slowly, one by one, the others joined in, humming along, a soulful longing in their tone, the rise and fall of their voices seeming to reach all the way to heaven even as the music sank deep into the heart.

  “Steal away. Steal away home. I ain’t . . . got long . . . to stay here.”

  Maggie’s voice rose, no longer feather-soft, and it captured an urgency that tugged at Alexandra’s heart. Then just as quickly it quieted again, powerful even in a hush.

  “My Lord . . . he calls me, and he calls me by the thunder. The trumpet sounds within’a my soul. I ain’t . . . got long . . . to stay here.”

  The song ended and another began. But this one Alexandra knew, and she softly joined in.

  “In the morning when I rise, in the morning when I rise, in the morning when I rise . . . Give me Jesus. Give me Jesus, give me Jesus. You can have all the rest, give me Jesus.”

  To her surprise, Sy joined in on the second verse, his deep voice hushed but filled with emotion as it blended with the others. As they sang, a sweetness filled the room. And she couldn’t think of anywhere else she’d rather be than in that room, right then, with those people.

  The song ended, and quiet amens rose as people stood and left the room.

  “Mr. White.” Sy caught him as he passed. “Which cities down south were you referring to? The Northeast Line doesn’t come this far north, but it does swing up through Kentucky and West Virginia. If you can get as far south as Portsmouth, I’d be more than willing to help with transportation for those specific cities, if you’d let me.”

  Mr. White smiled. “Before I have even bowed the knee, the Lord is already answering, Mr. Rutledge.”

  Tired, Alexandra stayed seated as they spoke, her mind going again to the accident in Ashtabula, then to Dutchman’s Curve.

  David . . .

  So he had lived through the accident, only to die sometime later. Tears rose again as she thought about what he must have suffered, thought about him saving that young woman. She wished now that she could have met Miss Glenn as well. Then it occurred to her that perhaps, by now, Miss Glenn had had the chance to tell David thank you after all.

  Mr. White bid them good night, and Sy walked with her as far as the staircase leading up to the second-floor landing. He looked down at her, then gently drew her to him. Alexandra breathed in the scent of him—bayberry and spice, sunshine and leather. And wished he didn’t have to go. Even more, she found herself wishing she could go with him.

  “I’m already missing you again,” she whispered.

  “And I’ve never stopped missing you.”

  The next morning when Alexandra and Ella entered the dining room, they found everyone already seated, and Mr. White’s face aglow. As they took their seats, Alexandra sensed a renewed energy and excitement among the group.

  “My dear children,” Mr. White began, “I have spent the entire night in prayer and have decided upon a name for our group.” His gaze slowly touched upon each of them. “You will be called . . . the Jubilee Singers. In honor of the Year of Jubilee!”

  Alexandra was familiar with the Year of Jubilee as described in the Old Testament. She remembered learning about it in church in earlier years, but had heard the story much more recently at Fisk during chapel. The commandment was part of the law given to Moses by God, stating that every fifty years, the Israelites were required to observe the Year of Jubilee. To follow God’s instructions for release from slavery, for redemption of property, and care of the land.

  And as Mr. White continued to speak, she felt something stir inside her. She looked at the faces around the table and sensed they felt the same.

  White leaned forward, his sharp features earnest. “Within the Jewish nation’s struggle for freedom and our own humble work here within this small band of believers and at Fisk University back home, we share a kinship. And I can think of no better name than this to lift up our cry to this nation and to be the banner for our call for freedom.”

  Chapter

  THIRTY-ONE

  Seated at the head of a makeshift conference room table, Sy felt the tension pouring from the railroad workers packed tightly into the room.

  He’d arrived into Charleston, West Virginia, a day later than planned due to the train accident in Ashtabula—which he was still having trouble accepting—and he found the tempers here volatile. The workers were frustrated over labor issues. Most of the issues not with the project at hand, Sy quickly realized. These were years-old grudges.

  Nevertheless, it fell to him to deal with it if he wanted the North Carolina/West Virginia railroad built. And he did.

  So he allowed the spokesman for the laborers to continue having his say.

  “We want better pay, Mr. Rutledge! Better equipment and better food. We’ve spent our lives blastin’ our way through the mountains of West Virginia and North Carolina. We’ve been diggin’ trenches through rock-hard earth with picks and shovels and kegs of black powder. I done lost count of how many friends I seen buried in landslides and explosions, sir. And while all of us sittin’ ’round this table this mornin’ know you ain’t to blame yourself, ’cause you wasn’t our boss then, we’re still comin’ to you now askin’ for what we believe is right! And we’re willin’ to strike for it too, if need be.”

  Assenting nods and rumbles of “That’s right!” rose from those gathered.

  Seated at the head of the table, Sy studied the face of each of the railroad men. Not suited executives who sat in offices far away from the grit and grime of laying ribbons of steel, but laborers who had bent their backs to the work, the years of toil etched in their faces.

  Along with seeing them, he also saw countless images burned into his memory. Not only from the many railroad accidents he’d witnessed in Colorado firsthand, but from the stories all the railroad workers he’d spoken to in recent weeks and months had told him, including those from Dutchman’s Curve and the Ashtabula Bridge.

  He also saw his father. Harrison Kennedy. Who had started out as a laborer himself, then worked his way up. Railroading was dangerous work. Nothing would change that. But so much of the tragedy he’d seen
was due to negligence, carelessness. Or someone sitting in an office far away and only too eager to make a quick fortune at the risk of other men’s lives.

  “Gentlemen, I hear your concerns.” Sy slowly rose from his chair and sensed the tension in the room rise with him. “And I agree. Changes need to be made. And it’s high time we make them.”

  He walked to the other end of the table, where the spokesman sat wary-eyed. “And starting today, we’ll begin working toward those changes. Mr. O’Grady, would you and two of your men be willing to partner with me and my supervisors to address these concerns? And to build the best—and safest—railroad this country has ever seen?”

  Sy held out his hand, knowing this was going to take more money and more time and would require his going back to his investors for more capital. But it was the right thing to do. And as his father had taught him, the right thing, be it more difficult and more costly, was always the right decision.

  O’Grady stared at his outstretched hand for a moment, as though not certain he could trust it. Then he stood and took firm hold. “Yes, sir, Mr. Rutledge. We would.”

  They canvassed the city of Xenia, their last night here before heading south tomorrow. But one hotel after another refused to give them shelter. With each rejection, Alexandra realized more and more that although she’d thought she understood the realities of her friends’ lives due to the color of their skin, she’d been wrong.

  With no place to sleep for the night, the group returned to the railway station under Mr. White’s counsel. A chilling November wind blew hard from the north, and with no overcoats among them, they huddled together to stay warm while Mr. White ventured out for food.

  The past two weeks of concerts had seen better contributions than the week previous, but the Jubilee Singers were still living hand to mouth. And with every day that passed, Fisk University was sinking deeper and deeper into debt.